Friendly Fire
by Sinematic
Summary: Bruce Wayne has finally returned to Gotham to take over his father's company, which threatens to expose Fish Mooney's extensive drug operation within Wayne Enterprises. She sends Selina Kyle to keep him from discovering her crimes—one way or another. AU Gotham! Slowburn
1. Welcome to Gotham, Kid

Welcome to Gotham, Kid

.

* * *

.

Alfred's lips twitch as he tries to suppress a laugh. The 'very serious business man' beside him had tuckered out during the long plane ride, and is now slumped over the tray-table, face mushed flat against his 'very important business papers' that threaten to spill over the edge. It reminds Alfred of the countless nights he found Bruce in a similar state, passed out over a pile of school books. Alfred nudges his traveling companion, who grunts and turns away in reply.

Alfred rolls his eyes and gently shakes Bruce's shoulder. "Com'on now, Master Bruce, wake up. The plane's about to land."

Bruce shifts back toward the source of his irritation. He warily opens an eye, squinting up at his butler. Deciding he can tolerate a few more minutes of Alfred's pestering, he shuts his eye and buries his face back into his paperwork.

"For someone who claims to be a man, you certainly act like a stubborn teenager often enough to convince me otherwise," Alfred taunts, knowing Bruce won't be able to ignore him.

As always, Alfred is right. Bruce groans and sits up, a paper briefly sticking to his cheek before fluttering back down onto his table. Bruce ignores Alfred's poor attempts to stifle his laughter and stretches his cramped arms, cracking his neck and back in the process. "Where are we?" he asks, still slightly dazed from his nap.

His pilot's voice crackles loudly over the intercom, "Will everybody please put on their seatbelts? We're about to begin our descent into Gotham City." Alfred grins at the coincidence, but if Bruce is amused he doesn't show it. He turns to look through the window, the vast city sprawled out beyond his vision. As the buildings pass by he happens to notice his own faint reflection in window, the expression unreadable.

.

* * *

.

"Get your nose out of those papers and come help me with these boxes!" Alfred calls, grunting as he lifts yet another large cardboard box from the moving van. He had discarded his jacket hours ago, now showing off sweat stains and lines of dirt and dust on his white shirt.

"I'll be right there, Alfred!" Bruce shouts back, not looking up from the papers in his lap. He's sitting on the sun-warmed stone steps of Wayne manor, an open box of dishes on his right and a glass of tap water on his left.

"If you don't want'a sleep on the floors tonight, you'll get down here now!" Alfred replies.

Bruce grins and puts his papers on the step, setting his drink on top to secure them from the wind. He jogs down the stairs to Alfred just in time to catch a precariously perched small box that was balanced on top of Alfred's stack.

"Good catch, Master Bruce," Alfred says, shifting the boxes in his arms, "I think the crockpot's in there."

"What ever would we do without that?" Bruce teases, spinning the box around so it's right-side-up.

"You'd have a shortage of Shepard's pie, that's for certain," Alfred replies, struggling under the weight of his packages.

"What a shame that would be," the young man muses, briefly considering dropping the box on purpose.

"Don't you dare," Alfred says, reading Bruce's mind. Bruce snickers and scoops up a few more boxes from the lawn, following Alfred up the stairs to the mansion.

Wayne manor had sat empty for nearly 10 years, collecting an impressive amount of dust and cobwebs during that time. Bruce had a cleaning crew go through most of the house a few days before their arrival, creating an unpleasant aroma of acrid cleaning products mixed with mildew in nearly every room. The furniture that was left behind had been dry-cleaned and/or polished, and the dirty white sheets that had covered them for a decade sit carelessly in the corners of each room. When they first arrived, Alfred had opened most of the ground floor windows and doors to flush out the pungent scents. As a result, the freshly washed curtains billow out at them, threatening to trip the two men and their stacks of cardboard boxes.

"Watch your step," Alfred says, shimmying through the narrow kitchen entrance, a sheer curtain whipping out against his face. He shakes his head in irritation and sets the boxes down on the expansive black granite countertop with a sigh of relief. Alfred takes a moment to glance around the large kitchen, trying not to be overwhelmed with the many memories he'd made within the room, but it's no use. Memories of frosting cookies with Bruce and Martha for the Wayne Family Christmas party, dancing on the table with Martha when sampling whiskeys with Thomas had gotten out of hand, and cleaning splattered cake off the stone walls on Bruce's second birthday flood back into the butler's mind. He leans against the counter to catch his breath.

A hand on his shoulder steadies him. "Alfred, are you okay?"

He looks up and smiles weakly at Bruce, whose eyes are wide with concern. "Yes, Master Bruce. The heat's just gettin' to my head, is all."

Bruce frowns. He knows Alfred isn't telling him the truth, but he also knows better than to disagree with him today. It's a difficult day for them both.

Truth be told, this day came much sooner than it should have. Thomas Wayne's official Will states that once Bruce receives his MBA he is eligible to take over as CEO of Wayne Enterprises. After his parent's death, and subsequently their murderer Mario Pepper's death, Alfred had swept Bruce across the sea, back to his home in London. There, at age 14, Bruce joined a highly-accelerated education program meant for preparing students for graduate school, focusing primarily on business. Bruce was intelligent, and fiercely determined, so he graduated the master's program at age 21 instead of 23 like the program promised him.

So here they are in Gotham, mere days after he had walked the stage and accepted his MBA diploma, neither of them truly prepared for the transition. Bruce had been determined to get to Gotham as soon as possible to finally take over his father's company, but failed to anticipate how truly painful it would be for him to walk back into his abandoned childhood home. Part of him became 12 again when he first walked through the door, wondering why the house was so quiet when his mother should have been home from the country club already.

Bruce ignores the sudden tightness in his throat and nods, accepting Alfred's lie. It's a difficult day for them both.

Alfred pushes off the counter and claps his hands together. "Right. Shall we continue on, then?"

Bruce checks his watch and is surprised to find out how late it is. "Perhaps a break for dinner would do us both some good," he suggests, peering out the window to see the lowering sun for himself as if his GPS-controlled wristwatch could be wrong.

"I could whip something up?" Alfred says, "But we'd 'ave to go to the store, I'm afraid."

Bruce is about to agree, but another look at Alfred changes his mind. His butler, despite his advanced age, usually has a spring-in-his-step and British-scented motivational speech in his back pocket. Tonight, however, the spring is gone and the motivation extinguished. He can see that Alfred is tired, and rightfully so. They can do errands later.

"I think some take-out food would suffice for tonight," Bruce says easily.

Alfred smiles gratefully, but it quickly turns into a scowl. "No company is going to deliver all the way out here though, and we can't take the moving van into the city."

Bruce frowns. "I wish our cars' transport hadn't been delayed," he says.

"Moving twenty cars is a hefty order, Master Bruce," Alfred replies with a grin.

Bruce shakes his head and returns the smile. "I suppose you're right." He spots the small pile of mail they had grabbed from the road earlier that day on the countertop, seeing a bill of coupons on top. He begins paging through it, suddenly stopping and jabbing his finger into the page. "Aha!" he exclaims triumphantly, pointing out the Gotham City Vehicle Rentals' 10% off discount coupon.

When the rental arrives ten minutes later, Alfred steps outside and almost trips over the open box of cookware Bruce had left on the top step. He frowns back at his employer, who cringes back apologetically, and then skootches the box to the side with his foot, nearly knocking Bruce's forgotten water glass over.

"Careful, Alfred!" Bruce says, quickly grabbing the glass and snatching the papers out from underneath it. He sets the cup back down and continues down the stairs, keeping the papers close against his chest.

"Ah-ah-ah. Just where do you think you're goin' with that?" Alfred tuts.

Bruce looks innocently between his papers and his butler. "Just a little light reading for the car ride."

"We won't be gone but a minute, Master Bruce, and you've had your nose in those papers all day," Alfred says, crossing his arms. "Lit'rally, during your nap on the plane," he adds with a smirk.

Bruce resists rolling his eyes as he turns to put his papers in the kitchen, away from Alfred and his needlessly concerned expression.

.

* * *

.

Their rental rumbles down the street, sputtering to a halt at a red-light, and Alfred mutters under his breath about the quality of American-made cars. Bruce, however, feels strangely comfortable. After they had picked up their take-out, Alfred suggested going for a quick drive through town to see what had changed. Although he had initially felt some anxiety, Bruce found himself relaxing as they drove aimlessly through the city. Bright neon signs bathe the streets with strange colors. The car windows are cracked open, and the familiar scent of smoky hotdogs and wet newspaper floats through the car. Yes, they are in Gotham once again.

Alfred asks him to pass him his food, expertly maneuvering the clutch while opening a packed box of lo-mein in his lap. Bruce follows suit, and soon they're both enjoying dinner in the car, Bruce occasionally taking over the stick so Alfred can sneak a bite in.

Neither of the men particularly notice the sun's absence until a shrill cry for help echoes around them, snapping them both out of their pleasant haze. Alfred checks his watch and curses the rental company for not having a working clock in the vehicle, but Bruce is searching the surroundings for the source of the scream, twisting around both ways in his seat. He sees the tail-end of a person running into a poorly lit alleyway.

"Stop Alfred!" he demands, eyes wide. He unbuckles his seatbelt.

"Excuse me?"

"Stop the car!" Bruce repeats, roughly grabbing the wheel.

"What the hell're you doing?" Alfred shouts, pulling against Bruce and hitting the brakes.

Bruce flings open his door and jumps from the slowed vehicle, immediately running toward the alley. He hears the worn brakes squealing in protest and Alfred shouting furiously after him but he keeps running, knowing Alfred will quickly catch up.

"Hey!" he yells, stopping at the alley entrance. His voice echoes around him mockingly. No one is there. Bruce cautiously walks in, confused, as Alfred huffs up behind him.

"Are you bloody insane?" Alfred demands after seeing that no one else is there. "What the hell's the matter with you?"

"I saw someone," Bruce insists, walking further into the alley.

"That don't matter! You can't go runnin' off into danger-" Alfred's chastising is cut off by another pained scream, this time closer. Bruce is running deeper into the alleyway toward the sound before Alfred can say another word. The butler groans in frustration and takes off after Bruce, this time staying right on his master's heels. They turn the corner and are both visibly taken aback.

A dozen strangely dressed men and women are crowded around a small, cowering child, each holding a weapon stranger-looking than the last and laughing maniacally. Many of them have colorful hair, and all of them are wearing messy clown make-up. Spikes adorn almost every article of clothing.

"Get away from him!" Bruce shouts. He hopes he doesn't look afraid when they simultaneously whip around to look at him, every one of them with an unsettling, insane expression. Where their eyes should be white is instead an inky black color, making the pupil indistinguishable and the group look eerily unhuman.

With their attention diverted, the small child takes the opportunity to run through the legs of his attackers. Luckily, the adults are more interested in the weaponless men that interrupted them and he escapes down the alley. Bruce's relief at this is short-lived as the group begins advancing on them, whooping, yelling, and laughing.

"Fresh meat!" one cries out, a gurgling laugh escaping from its mouth. Another effortlessly swings his baseball bat against a metal trashcan, smashing a dent into the side with a loud crack.

Alfred and Bruce share similar saucer-eyed expressions as they slowly back away from the encroaching crowd, raised hands ready to react. Alfred peers over his shoulder and nearly rips Bruce's sleeve in an effort to get him to follow. They rip down the alley towards their car, only to see three more of the dark-eyed clowns standing at the end of the alleyway, blocking their path.

"Shit!" Bruce curses, coming to an abrupt stop. The villains smile back at him.

Alfred sighs, accepting that an escape from this fight is not an option. "I sit through a 10 hour flight and work in the hot sun all afternoon, only wanting a bit of dinner in return. But no! You had'ta pick a fight with a bunch of demonic clowns, didn'chya." He spots a few rotted two-by-fours leaning against a dumpster and grabs them, pushing one into Bruce's hands, who nods back gratefully. They hold up their crude weapons as the loud clownish humanoids surround them, barking and jeering at the pair.

"Can you consider it dinner and a show?" Bruce offers weakly.

"Not likely," the butler dryly responds. A particularly tall clown snaps at him, and Alfred lurches back. "Right then, are you ready?" Alfred asks, his back against Bruce's.

"Let's keep score," Bruce suggests, his eyes darting wildly between the attackers, head buzzing with adrenaline.

Laughing crazily, one of the more excited of the group strikes first. It steps forward and swings a metal pipe down toward Bruce's head. Unfortunately for it, the young man's extensive martial-arts training kicks in. He blocks the pipe with his two-by-four, easily kicking the villain in the stomach. It falls back, the wind knocked out of its lungs. The others roar, three charging in at a time. Alfred dodges a baseball bat, bringing his piece of lumber around to crack against the attacker's skull.

Bruce is ready when two charge at him, one with a spiked mace and another with a ragged-edged knife. He dodges the mace and slams the two-by-four down onto the knife, pulling it from the clown's grip. He bashes the knife wielder in the face with the edge of the lumber, avoiding another swing of the mace and countering by smashing his elbow into the attacker's nose. He drops his mace and staggers backward, hands flying up to cradle his face.

Alfred ducks under the swing of a spiked club and sweeps the legs of his attacker out from underneath her, causing her to fall with a thud. The one with the pipe goes to attack Bruce again. He blocks the attack with his lumber, but the knife severed the already weakened wood and the lumber splinters apart with the blow, the knife clattering to the ground. Bruce elbows the one with the pipe in the face, turning around just in time to throw half of the piece of wood at another who was running at Alfred. He throws it with enough force to cause the villain to loudly trip backwards into a reeking mound of garbage.

Alfred is busy avoiding a punch from one with a set of brass knuckles when he feels the unmistakable sting of a blade swish against his calf. He kicks the attacker away, turning around to throw the one with the brass knuckles over his shoulder onto the other with the dagger.

Bruce notices the blood immediately.

"Alfred!"

This small distraction is enough for one of the goons to grab hold of Bruce's shirt, swiftly punching Bruce's jaw with his large red boxing glove. The metallic taste of blood fills Bruce's mouth as he angrily uppercuts his attacker, sending him to the ground.

Bruce feels woozy from the blow, and his vision blurs in and out. He glances back at Alfred, who's valiantly defending himself despite the large gash on his calf, then feebly uses his last chunk of wood to block yet another attack. More clownish men and women are standing around them than had been before. Their numbers have nearly doubled. Bruce isn't sure how, if they wriggled out from the cracks in the walls or materialized in thin air, but he knows he's getting tired. His thoughts travel back to the abandoned take-out food in their car, almost wishing he had ignored the cry for help. Almost. His overdeveloped sense of justice would never allow him to do that. But if it did, he and Alfred would be happily full and on their way home instead of fighting a losing battle.

Suddenly an outlier of the group goes sprawling to the ground with a scream, having just been viciously kicked in the head by a stranger with stylish black combat boots.

"Hey freaks!" she shouts, "You forget whose territory you're on?"

The groups' attention snaps to the woman, a rise of panic quickly filling the air. Bruce and Alfred stare, equally surprised. While the woman is neither tall nor bulky, her posture and expression announce that she is not someone to be reckoned with.

Bruce is shocked as a wave of recognition hits him. He searches his memory for an answer but comes up blank.

One of the villains hisses behind Bruce, "What're you gonna do?"

The woman tugs a black handle situated on her belt and an impossibly long basilisk whip unravels onto the pavement. "What do you think?" she asks humorlessly, her hand tightening around the weapon's hilt. The crowd begins shouting insults back at the woman, who glares and readies her weapon. Bruce raises his fists and Alfred his lumber, expecting the worst to happen.

"Enough!" a deep voice roars.

A man drops soundlessly from the fire-escape above. Bruce can't believe he didn't notice him there. As he stands to his full height, the crowd of villains collectively begin to shout excitedly.

However, the expression on the man's face is anything but friendly. From under his hood he glowers at the clowns.

"Leave. NOW!"

Bruce and Alfred's attackers scramble to run away like a pack of wild dogs, pulling their wounded behind them and shrieking into the night. Bruce watches them run, feeling slightly defeated, and turns to address the newcomers.

"Thank you," he says loudly.

The man ignores him and the woman barely glances at him, but her eyes widen slightly when she does. It's a change that he wouldn't have noticed had he not been watching intently (and without blinking).

The tall man gestures at the woman to leave with a tilt of his head. Bruce sees now that he has coppery red hair underneath his hood, a handgun stuffed in his waistband, and a long, menacing katana slung across his back. The equally heavily-armed woman nods, her curly hair bobbing with her.

They turn to leave.

"Wait!"

Bruce isn't thinking when he dashes forward and grabs her gloved hand. She whips around to look at him, her lips curled back in disgust, and rips her fingers from his hold. He manages to stammer, "Forgive me, but I-"

"You must be new here," she interrupts, securing her hands on her hips.

Bruce straightens up. "I suppose I am," He says, staring at her intently. "Who were those…people?"

She studies him silently, their eyes dancing back and forth. "Doesn't matter," she says finally, "But word of the wise? Don't join fights you aren't apart of."

Something about her, the tone of her voice or her cold green eyes, screams familiarity to Bruce but he can't put his finger on it.

"Who are you?" He asks, completely bypassing her comments. She doesn't answer, but glares at him coldly, so icy a glare in fact, that a peculiar, uncomfortable feeling worms into Bruce's gut. He suppresses a shiver.

"Can we get going now?" her companion asks impatiently.

"Well… welcome to Gotham, kid," she says sarcastically, gesturing broadly to the depressing alleyway around them.

Bruce tilts his head, squinting at the woman. _Kid._ A memory tugs in the back of his mind, but he can't quite reach it.

She backs away and takes off down the alley. The man flashes Bruce an eerie smile before running after her. Bruce watches as they sprint down the alley, easily jumping up to a fire escape. He continues to stare long after they'd disappeared over the top of a building.

"Uh, Master Bruce?"

Bruce snaps back to reality. "Alfred! Is your leg okay?"

Alfred nods, but chucks the car keys to Bruce. At some point during the interaction, he had sunk down to the asphalt and tied his necktie around his calf. He looks pale, and his fingers and hands are coated in a generous amount of fresh blood. "Just a nick, really, but I wouldn't mind if you drove."

"Of course. Wait here," Bruce says quickly, clutching the bloodied keys in his hand, a small surge of panic rising in his throat. He runs back to the car and flings the driver's side door open, only to find that in Alfred's haste to stop, the take-out food had been tossed forward. Sticky noodles cover every inch of the dashboard.

"Alfred will love this," Bruce mutters, wincing from the overwhelming smell. Reluctantly he climbs in and starts the sputtering car.

.

* * *

.

 **THANK YOU to everyone who decided to read! Lemme know what you think(;**


	2. Mama

Mama

.

* * *

.

Selina and Jerome run silently through the poorly-lit streets of the Narrows in perfect tandem, hooded shadows in the darkness. They pause for air when they reach the roof of a small, three-story building. The area is barely illuminated, the only light coming from surrounding buildings and the cloud-covered moon.

"We should hurry," Jerome says lowly, searching the empty streets below. He pulls the edge of his hood forward, masking his face. "Butch can't act his way out of a paper bag."

"You aren't wrong," Selina replies, pushing a pair of goggles up from her eyes into her unruly crown of curls, "Especially if he's trying to do an accent. The target can't be _that_ stupid."

"He might be. Crossing Fish is a death sentence," Jerome mutters darkly, his naturally coarse voice making the statement even more ominous. He breaks out into a huge smile and sighs dreamily, remembering the gruesome way Fish dealt with a different man who'd dodged his owed payments. They call him the Six-Fingered Man now, but not because of a genetic surplus.

Lights are disappearing from the neighboring building windows now, as if the occupants know Fish Mooney's most dangerous enforcers are nearby.

"Guess we'll find out," she says simply as the last light is extinguished, leaving the pair in the soft gloom of the night. Selina breathes out contentedly, happy to lurk in the shadows. The darkness has proved to be her best environment; anywhere else she feels out of place.

A sudden nearby shriek breaks her quiet reverie. Selina chooses to ignore it, knowing the occasional shout is a familiar sound this time of night and figuring whomever-it-is deserves whatever-it-is they're getting for stupidly being outside in the first place. She looks to Jerome and instantly sees the gears turning in his twisted head as his mouth stretches into an evil grin.

"You know… we have to go in that direction anyways," he says slowly.

She crosses her arms. "What? You didn't get your daily dose of gore yet?"

Jerome holds up his hands in surrender. "I'm just not one to pass up free entertainment!"

"What happened to _'we should hurry'_?" she asks skeptically, making quotation marks in the air.

"Oh, the ol' lunk can take care of himself for another couple'a minutes," he dismisses, staring eagerly off into the night as another wild shriek echoes across the city. "Com'on, Cat. Let's have some fun," Jerome says, a pleading tone in his otherwise dark voice. Her eyes narrow in irritation, certain that his definition of fun is far from hers. But before she can respond, he's jumped to the next rooftop, sprinting off in the direction of the commotion and laughing maniacally.

She sighs and reluctantly runs after him, resenting Fish more and more for making her babysit him on this already damned mission.

.

.

He immediately recognizes the men and women below as members of the Maniax, the secret group of radical psychopaths who enjoy causing mayhem around the city and dressing up like demonic clowns. _His_ secret group that is certainly _not_ supposed to be in Fish Mooney's territory. He pushes back from the edge of the roof and sits down, unable to look any longer.

Selina, however, is interested in the show. She feels a confusing combination of pity and annoyance for the two misplaced men about to experience Gotham's version of natural selection, but is surprised when the younger looking man easily blocks and kicks away one of the clowns. She glances back at her unwanted partner, similar feelings of pity and annoyance building up within her.

"Ya know, I hate to be that guy," Selina confesses as she turns back to watch the outnumbered confrontation, "but I think you might have outdone yourself this time."

He picks his head up from his knees, confused. "What?"

"Usually the people who betray Fish are already dead, so they don't have the chance to do it twice," she clarifies, her attention still stolen by the fight below.

"I have nothing to do with this! They're acting on their own," he snaps defensively, though his expression flickers worriedly.

It hadn't been his intention, but Jerome inadvertently became the founder/leader of the Maniax when he began hanging out at Celestial Gardens. The nightclub is known for its creepy atmosphere and spectacular live entertainment, so Jerome quickly found a second home in it. After one particularly long night of drinking, Jerome stole the microphone from a singer and began telling terrible jokes. When the singer objected, Jerome forced the singer to swallow the microphone. And although the singer was asphyxiating in front of the entire club, the audience was focused solely on Jerome, transfixed by his embodiment of everything they loved: humor, violence, excitement, and crime. Jeri, the owner of the club, asked him to perform there regularly and he eagerly agreed.

Months later, his fans became a cult following, willing to do whatever he said. They ran amuck around Gotham, shouting praises of Jerome's name, bloating his ego to planetary proportions. Unfortunately for Jerome, word of the Maniax traveled to Fish. She considered his forming the group a betrayal and punished him harshly; but not before demoting him from his high position within the mob and demanding he disband his following immediately. Despite the consequences Jerome couldn't give up the attention and adoration, at least not fully, so every so often he sneaks back to Celestial Gardens for Maniax meetings.

Apparently, his order to "stay low" has been ignored or forgotten, and now, after finally rising above dish duty at the restaurant to go on a real mission, his chances of getting back on Fish's good side are suddenly in jeopardy because of it.

Jerome drops his face into his hands, breathing heavily. If they keep carrying on they'll draw the police. And if they draw the police into Fish's territory…

"Fish is going to gut you," Selina tells him squarely, finally looking away from the fight, "The street runners are already making their rounds."

"I know," Jerome says darkly, peering up at her. Another moment passes as they look at each other.

"Well? Don't just sit there like an idiot on a log," she huffs, folding her arms across her chest, "Butch is still waiting for us."

"NO!" He scrambles to his knees, panic tightly wedged in his throat. "We have to get rid of them," he says frantically, "Fish will _kill_ me!"

Selina pretends to mull this over.

"PLEASE!" he shouts, and she hates him for being so unpredictable. One minute he's acting serious about the mission, and the next he's sobbing like a scolded toddler.

"What do you suggest?" she snaps, endlessly resenting Fish's decision to let him tag along with her.

A few awkward seconds tick by, Selina glaring down at Jerome and Jerome glaring down at his restless hands. "Alright," he says finally, drumming his fingers together, "Let's just—and hear me out! …Let's just kill them all."

"Are you serious?" Selina responds dryly. The chaotic sounds of the fight drift up from the alleyway and she vaguely wonders who's winning.

"Hmm… you're right," Jerome says thoughtfully, "This is a new coat." He jumps to his feet and walks toward the edge, but Selina blocks him.

"What're you doing?" she demands, stepping back from his towering form and eyeing him speculatively.

"I'm just gonna go talk to them," he explains, rolling his eyes as if the answer was obvious, "I'm their—I mean, I _was_ their leader for a reason."

Selina folds her arms, not missing his slip. "Right," she says, her tone laced with doubt, "And what if that doesn't work?"

Jerome makes a startlingly loud noise, somewhere between a growl and a groan. "Too! Much! Thinking!" he bawls, raking his fingers through his hair.

"Shut up!" she snarls, suddenly wary that all his noise may be attracting unwanted Maniax attention from below.

His normally pale face is stained red with frustrated anger as he glowers back at her. "Screw this. I'm just going to kill them all," he says as evenly as he can, his raspy voice still wavering a little. He reaches for his sword and strides forward.

"Jerome!" she hisses, pushing against his chest to prevent him from shoving past her, "Can you think for one second? I'd _like_ to avoid a bloodbath if possible. Just le'me go down there first, maybe scare 'em off."

The anger drains immediately from his features as he bursts into cackling laughter, a reminder of his volatile temperament. "Y-you?" he stammers.

Selina's eyes narrow. "Yes, me. Is that funny?"

He continues to laugh, now clutching his stomach, "Funny? That's a god damn riot! You're about as scary as my nan's knickers!" His face drops a little as he considers his statement. "Wait a minute, that's pretty scary too."

Her mouth hinges open with indignation. _She_ isn't scary? Coming from the kid with cartoons on his underwear? "Know what? Screw you. Deal with them yourself," she seethes, striding away from him. Damn him, damn this mission, and damn Fish Mooney for making her babysit him in the first place.

And as much as she wants to leave him to deal with his own mess, she stops her abrupt march when he calls after her.

"Wait!"

.

* * *

.

The combination of the full moon and the menacingly tall iron-wrought fence creates long jagged shadows across the graveyard's craggy terrain. Wispy black clouds stretch tightly across the night sky, causing a beautifully dreary scene above the muggy Gotham Cemetery. While it's normally a noiseless, peaceful place where only the already-dead reside, tonight the graveyard is alive with lights, gunshots, and blood-curdling cries of agony.

Several of Butch's men lay dead or wounded in the middle of the courtyard, alongside several of the target's men. He and his remaining henchmen crouch behind various headstones, pinning them down with seemingly unending ammo.

"Give Fish a message for me!" their target shouts arrogantly from behind a tall gravestone, waving his pistol in the air, "Tell her I say her product was an assault on my senses and she owes me and my buyers for even _trying_ the mediocre crap!" His average featured-face twists into a haughty grin, and Butch decides that his generic features fit his anonymous status well.

"You can tell her yourself once we bring you in! Or at least, most of you in!" Butch yells back in reply, causing the opposing gunfire to double.

Selina and Jerome had walked into the gunfight late and were forced to hide together behind a stone sarcophagus, but the beauty of the detailed sculpture and ancient script goes unnoticed as bullets explode dangerously close to them.

"Nice of you to join the party!" Butch shouts to the pair from behind a bullet-ridden mausoleum, his voice garbled under the crackling gunfire.

"You used the accent, didn't you?" Jerome yells back, grinning despite their situation.

Butch scowls back at him. "Screw you! That accent was gold!" He ducks out of hiding to return fire.

"And they say _my_ jokes are bad," Jerome chuckles, nudging Selina's side. She stares blankly ahead, not even a flicker of acknowledgment passing over her still features. His grin drops. Although he knows she can sit through uneventful overnight surveillance with relentless concentration, he suspects that somehow Selina Kyle, espionage expert, is distracted from the butt-kicking task at hand. And that's just strange.

"Hey! Hellllloooo?" Jerome nags, "Anybody home?" Other than letting her eyes flutter closed, she doesn't react. He reaches to touch her shoulder, but yelps in surprise when her gloved hand snaps around his wrist. His eyes travel past her slender fingers to her tense, narrowed glare and he chuckles, amused.

"Welcome back," he snorts.

"I was _thinking_ ," she tells him through clenched teeth.

"You don't need to fantasize about me when I'm right here," he teases, again trying to touch her shoulder.

She swats him away and rolls her eyes. "Fat chance. I was counting bullets."

"Who needs that math mumbo-jumbo when you're a badass ninja warrior-" he grins and pulls a throwing star from his pocket "-like me."

"Are you serious?" she scoffs.

"Serious as a dead man," Jerome replies, his rusty voice threatening. He whips the throwing star over their heads and waits for a shriek, but is disappointed when a few moments pass by undisturbed. Popping out of cover, he somewhat successfully chucks a few throwing knifes at their enemies instead.

Selina shakes her head, trying to escape the haze that surrounds her mind. Counting bullets was a good excuse for her poor presence, but her thoughts were far from the battle. Instead, they buzz with the memory of the moronic men she'd inadvertently saved earlier in the evening. She had recognized them both, but from what she has no idea. The image of the younger man unabashedly hunting her face and body, mirroring her own actions exactly, is imprinted in the front of her mind. Clearly he recognized her in some capacity too. She can feel a headache developing as she searches her memory for the answer.

"Selina!" Butch's voice breaks her trance. She looks up to see that Butch, Jerome, and Butch's men had left cover and are fighting hand-to-hand with the target's henchmen. Her face scrunches in wonder. How in God's name had she not noticed?

"Get him!" Butch screams as he crushes a man's neck with his good hand, using his massive metal hand to gesture across the dark field of tombstones to the tall, dark-haired man sprinting away. _The target_.

Selina hastily glances around before launching after him, because although she may be part of a team, self-preservation has been and will always be her first priority. But as her feet carry her swiftly between the jagged headstones, it occurs to her that one wouldn't be running through an active warzone against their better judgement if self-preservation were their _only_ priority. Loyalty has been both the best and worst thing in her life; it runs through her blood like acid.

She catches up to the panting man quickly, and in one fluid movement she pulls out her whip and catches his ankle in its snare. A cloud of dirt and dust erupt around them as he hits the ground hard, skidding to a stop just in front of a modest grave marker. She stands over him, arms crossed.

"I-I can get your money right now!" the man stammers, guarding his face behind his raised arm, the length of which is now stained with dirt.

"You're _going_ to," Selina bites, annoyed that he thinks offering to pay is an option. "But first," she begins slowly, drawing a sleek silver knife from its sheath on her hip, "are you a righty or a lefty?"

The man visibly pales, his eyes growing wider and wilder as he begins to tremble. "No, no, please. I'm… I-I'm not either!"

"So what you're saying is, it doesn't matter which one I choose," Selina says casually.

"Er, I mean, I'm ambitious. I mean, ambidextrous. I need them b-both."

"No, that means it doesn't matter which one I choose," she says, inspecting the blade of her small dagger.

"Oh please! Oh no!" he bawls, holding both hands as close to his chest as he can. Selina shakes her head at the pathetic man.

"Look buddy, just pick a hand and let's make this quick," she advises, planting her free hand on her jutting hip.

As she watches the pitiful man begging from his knees with snot seeping down his lips and chin, she finds her impatience with the evening growing exponentially. She can feel the blood sizzling beneath her skin as the nuisances of the night replay in her head, and suddenly the picture of the familiar young man comes to mind. An entirely new feeling of agitation appears in her mind as she pictures the two dopey men wearing their Sunday best in a Narrows alleyway. She sees the crimson blood leaking around the man's teeth as he retracts his hand from hers, looking offended that she'd ripped herself away from him. Who could _possibly_ be that naïve? And _why_ does she remember him? She feels dizzy and confused, like the time she washed down a pain pill with a glass of one of Ivy's unidentifiable purple liquors. _I told you it was experimental, Selina_ , she hears Ivy's lilting voice scold in her head.

The next few moments seem to happen in slow motion, starting with the dull crack of a heavy rock colliding with the top of her skull. Suddenly everything is too bright to see, and there's a soft, high pitched squeal in her ear. An earthy aroma envelopes her as white-hot pain settles over her head. The brightness fades from her vision and something tickles her face. Grass. She forces her eyes open. The bleary, sideways sight of the target and one of his henchmen clumsily hopping the iron-wrought fence maddens her, but her limbs don't respond to her commands. _Run! Get up! Move!_

Selina thinks someone is yelling, but it's as clear as if she were underwater. As the target disappears from her sight and the muddled voice becomes louder, she slips into unconsciousness.

.

* * *

.

A half-full glass teacup shatters against the wall, instantly staining the red wallpaper brown. The thrower, Fish Mooney, furiously turns on the unlucky trio before her. "What do you _mean_ he got away?" she demands. They had entered the large office beneath the popular Gotham restaurant, The Fish Bowl _,_ just as Fish was having her "stress-relieving" cup of tea, a nightly ritual of hers.

Butch shrugs. "Sorry, boss. The dream team over here didn't deliver."

"If by 'didn't deliver' you mean saved your lives, then yeah, we didn't deliver," Selina says sourly. She leans against the wall holding an ice-pack against her aching head, looking miserable and embarrassed. Jerome stands stiffly next to her, jaw tense. His pale face and new coat are hidden beneath a thick smattering of dark blood, resembling a child who'd gotten carried away with finger-painting. However, he doesn't appear to be injured.

"Honey, it didn't look like you were saving my life while I was carrying your unconscious ass across Gotham," Butch objects, smirking.

"Let's talk straight," Fish says crisply, drawing in close to Selina and Jerome. She places a hand firmly on each of their shoulders, her intricate blue nails digging through their jackets into their skin. "Tell mama what happened."

Jerome wriggles under her touch, the dried blood pulling his skin uncomfortably. He hadn't been as anxious when Selina was unconscious, but now that she is awake and fully capable of mentioning their confrontation with the Maniax his heart throbs furiously in his ears. He was _just_ recovering from his demotion, so the thought of returning to dish duty, or worse, makes his stomach churn.

Fish is still patiently waiting for an answer half a clock's worth of clicks later, knowing either Jerome or Selina will have to interrupt the silence sooner or later. The former finally breaks the tension.

"Selina let the target go," he says, using the same tone as if he were discussing the weather.

Selina seizes up with disbelief at the sound of her name. "Are-are you kidding me?" she stammers furiously, forgetting about her head pains as she pushes away from the wall to stand defiantly, " _You're_ throwing _me_ under the bus?"

He shrugs. "I'm not the one who screwed up the mission."

"ASSHOLE!" she bellows, leaping to attack him. Fish roughly pushes her back to the wall and any previous intention of her headache going away disappears. She lets out a pained moan and cradles her head in her hands, the pounding within drowning out Fish's next words.

"Butch, while tweedle-dee and tweedle-dumb get their stories straight, why don't _you_ tell me what happened?"

Butch swallows back a nervous lump. "Well, boss, the guy didn't fall for our trap. He had hired guns and they tore us down. I lost Bernard, Cassian, and Verde, and most of the others are in the infirmary."

"And you disposed of their bodies?" she interrupts.

"Yeah, Strange came to pick 'em up," Butch replies uneasily, recalling his interaction with the terrifying doctor.

She makes a small sound of approval. "We'll have a memorial tomorrow. Now, go on," she encourages.

With more confidence than before, Butch picks up his story. "So finally, the dream team here showed up, late, and I sent Cat after the target. I hear squealing tires and run over the hill to see'er unconscious in the dirt and the target taking off down the road."

"Told'ja she screwed it up," Jerome sneers. Butch shoots him a glare.

"Meanwhile," Butch starts, "this little maniac went ahead and _stabbed_ everyone with his idiotic sword while I was gone, so now we got no one to interrogate and we still don't have a name for the target."

" _Cat_ was supposed to get him! We shouldn't have needed other hostages!" Jerome argues, the arrogant smile sliding off his face.

"As if that's an excuse," Selina snorts from across the room. "And I thought you said that was a new coat? You know, back up on that rooftop," she adds dangerously, indulging in a cruel smirk.

His eyes snap up to meet hers and is about to deny knowing what she's talking about, but Fish places her hand on his upper back, making him pause. "She's right," she says calmly. Too calmly. Jerome shrugs away nervously, but Fish adjusts her grip to the back of his collar and brings their faces close. "I'll deal with you later," she threatens lowly, and he doesn't miss the promising look in her eyes. Locked in a staring contest, Jerome finally closes his eyes and nearly falls when she drops the back of his blood-stained jacket.

Fish turns to address Selina. "You'll do good to explain yourself now. Don't worry, honey, I won't bite," her voice deceptively inviting.

Selina glances up from her perch against the wall, her anger with Jerome still seeping through her vessels and making her temple throb. She's glad she didn't mention the Maniax, though. Something to hold over his head later. "The guy had backup Butch didn't know about. They came up behind me, and hit me over the head," she tells Fish, thinking her answer is true enough.

Fish's eyes narrow as she suspiciously looks Selina up and down. "So you're saying that one of his oafish hired guns got the drop on you?"

"Yeah, well… people make mistakes!" Selina defends herself.

"Not my people!" Fish fires back angrily. Selina winces as her loud words ring through her already addled head, but silently stares back at her mentor with a hard look in her eyes. _People make mistakes_ , she futilely reminds herself.

Fish looks to Jerome who is silently shaking his head "no" and she bares her teeth, her previous unstable anger flaring. "Do not lie to me!" she commands, raising her hand to strike.

Reflexively Selina's hand twitches for the dagger on her belt and suddenly her hand cracks against the wall, Fish's gouging nails searing her skin. Her ice-pack falls to the floor. "Don't you _dare_ reach for your weapon when I'm talking to you," Fish orders, sweet breath hot against Selina's face. Fish's other hand comes to grasp her jaw, forcing Selina's gaze up, nails cutting into her skin. "Look at me," she hisses lowly, "and tell me the truth."

"It was his fault we were late," Selina says, her voice strangled, but Fish violently jostles her skull against the wall, her grip tightening. A pained moan escapes Selina's lips, but Fish pays no mind.

"I don't want to hear about _him_ , I want to hear about _you_ ," Fish says warningly.

"I wasn't paying attention," Selina admits, but Fish waits for her to go on. Her face crumples with shame as she reveals, "I _don't know_ what happened, I just like, blanked out, and he just got away."

The answer seems to finally satisfy Fish, because she loosens her hold on Selina and steps back, slowly nodding like she believes it but frowning like she doesn't. "He just got away, huh?" Fish repeats, tasting the explanation for herself.

"I told you, it was a mistake," Selina says, her eyelids pressed together in pain and anger.

"And I told you, little girl, that my people don't make mistakes," Fish counters harshly. "Now, I want you to go back out there and find him."

"Hang on Fish," Butch interrupts, hoping to mollify his boss, "I think she's got a serious concussion. I don't think-"

"You ain't here to think," Fish snaps, giving her second-in-command a stern look that dares him to protest. She points at Selina. "Don't you come back to my house without that money. You hear me?"

Selina can do nothing but nod obediently.

"Good," Fish confirms. The mess she had made earlier draws her attention. "Get someone to clean this up," she says to Butch, pointing to the still-dripping walls, "But first-" she tilts her head toward Jerome, "-take him to the cages."

The color drains from Jerome's ghostly face, making the sickening dark blood stains all the more vibrant. "No. No! Not the cages! PLEASE!" Jerome begs her as Butch reluctantly takes hold of his upper arm. "I'll be good, I promise!"

"A few days in there will do you some good," she says, holding her head a little higher as she speaks, "Maybe you'll remember not to get sent back after this time."

"Sorry, man," Butch says, leading him from the office.

"Don't let him take me, Fish! PLEASE!" Jerome wails, digging his heels into the laminate and thrashing against his captor. "MAMA!" he cries out, terror-stricken.

She ignores her title, and instead gathers some things from her desk, turning her back to her foster son completely. Butch and another of Butch's men who was standing in the hallway drag Jerome, screaming, to his prison.

Fish looks over her shoulder at her foster daughter and whispers, "Tick-tock, little cat." She walks from the room, heels clicking loudly, and shouts down the hall, "Oswald! Bring me more tea!"

Now alone in Fish's office, Selina allows herself to sink down to the floor, groping around for her ice-pack. She reflects on the evening's proceedings bitterly, starting with Jerome's idiot club, continuing with the confusing encounter with the tall, grey-eyed distraction, and finishing with her own shameful lack of attention when it mattered most. As she pushes the ice against her head, hissing at the action, she feels an extra stab of resentment for the young man who'd quickly woven himself into her thoughts. Relief only comes once she realizes the odds of seeing him again are slim to none, and the enticing prospect of forgetting him entirely comes to mind.

.

* * *

.

 **Whew, long chapter! Hopefully not too crammed full of exposition…? I never know if I'm strong arming in details or not.**

 **My inspiration for Fish comes from Gus Fring (Breaking Bad) because she's a drug dealer hiding in plain sight with her family-friendly restaurant The Fish Bowl, and also from Vee Parker (OITNB) because she uses/abuses the foster care system to find children to join her drug empire. Selina and Jerome were recruited at much earlier ages, and while they aren't technically her legal foster children anymore because they're both older, she still holds a matronly bond over them. I hope you liked this little twist! It'll make things complicated for literally everyone later on.**

 **Anyways, I'd like to thank my reviewers Tallulah18, Safirefly, DR14, Serpentina Lynn, elilili, Deo Rusev, and UnicornButler, and everyone else who favorited, followed, and read. You guys are completely amazing! Next chapter is almost done so hopefully it won't be too long of a wait, so long as I can avoid rewriting everything again lol. Also, this is my first time writing present-tense, so if you've noticed any mistakes please let me know!**


	3. Side-Effect

The Mooney Bin

.

* * *

.

A weighty briefcase with a blood-stamped handprint skids across Fish's desk, knocking over trinkets and papers as it skids to a teetering stop.

"There's your money!" Selina throws over her shoulder, already stalking out of Fish's office. It isn't until she reaches the end of the hallway that she realizes Fish isn't screaming threats or profanities after her, and she becomes curious.

"Fish?" Selina pokes her head into Fish's office. The kingpin is sitting at her desk, hand wrapped around a vintage corded phone's long handle, staring vacantly at the wall of black-and-white security camera monitors. The briefcase still wavers at the edge of the desk, unnoticed.

"Uh, Fish?" Selina prompts, stepping into the dimly lit room. "The money?"

Fish blinks but doesn't look away from the televisions. She taps her aqua nails along the metal phone handle, making soft plinks.

Selina bounces on her toes. "There's a bonus in there too," she offers, looking nonplussed at her boss's unusual demeanor. It's as if Fish is in a trance.

Selina is wondering if Ivy was trying her hand at hypnotism again when Fish speaks. "You can leave now," she says coolly, still watching the monitors. Selina blinks in confusion and straightens up.

"Seriously? No 'sorry for kicking you out, Selina'?" the young woman protests, mimicking Fish's voice.

"I do have something to say, actually," Fish divulges, finally turning to face her pseudo-daughter. She carefully looks Selina up and down, taking in her unkempt appearance. "You look like you've been living in a pig-pen," Fish says, adopting an expression of sheer disgust, "and you smell like an ulcer packed with garbage. Now, leave." She turns back to her previous position without further comment.

Selina's mouth hinges open. She's spent the last three nights sleeping on the streets with a raging concussion, fighting off street lunatics and dodging cops, and was then forced to relive one of the worst moments of her life, a moment she had hoped to bury within her mind forever, _all_ for Fish Mooney! And she opts to ignore and then insult her? No. No way.

"Screw you," Selina bites back.

Fish's brows snap together and her eyes widen. "What the _hell_ did you just say to me, girl?" she demands, shoving away from her desk to stand.

"I said SCREW YOU!" Selina shouts, quaking in her anger.

"GET OUT OF HERE!" Fish screams back, flinging her pointed finger at the door. Selina needs no further bidding. She slams the door behind her as she surges away from Fish, out to the hallway to climb the small winding staircase two steps at a time. The staircase opens into the restaurant kitchen closet, whose door she also slams closed. The building is shut for the evening so she doesn't have to worry about alerting anyone to her presence, but even if there were people around she wouldn't care. _Screw Fish_. She stalks across the restaurant to the front door but pauses when she catches her reflection in a decorative mirror. She peers into the ornamental frame, scrutinizing the person in front of her.

Her coffee curls are wild and itchy, unruly from the last few days of neglect. Cement powder and dried blood are caked onto her clothes and face. She blows a stray hair tendril from her eyes and feels her anger begin to give way to exhaustion.

 _Maybe a hot shower isn't such a bad idea._

She makes her way toward Fish's estate and an hour later, Selina is standing in a steam-filled bathroom. With a toothbrush hanging out of her mouth, Selina rubs at the red indents left on her skin from the tight, protective fabric she wears. Without a readily available change of clothes, Selina had felt the same seams pressing into the same spots on her body for days. She spits into the sink and runs her tongue along her teeth in disappointment. Not even the minty-est of toothpastes can completely delete the mingling taste of dust and plaque harboring in her mouth. She begins to peel a comb through her wet, messy curls in vain, and winces sharply when she runs the comb over the bruise on her scalp. The last few days have caused her nothing but harm. Her muscles are sore, her skin is black-and-blue, and her sanity? Oh god. She'll never be sane again.

"So what?" she asks her reflection, zeroing in on her sunken eyes, "No one else in this house is. Might as well join them." Her throat begins to swell when her mutinous brain reminds her of the painful events of the day.

She whips the comb onto the countertop in frustration, shaking the thoughts away, and concedes to wrap herself in a towel for the trek back to her space. She refuses to call it her "room". Her bare feet pad down the hallway and she's anxious to put her shoes on. As her mother, her _real_ mother, used to say, "Naked feet's safety, and you're never safe."

The room is practical at best. Aside from some small ceramic bowls meant for cat food in the corner and a modest stack of clothing in the closet, the space looks precisely how it was when she arrived at the house 12 years earlier. She reasons that the house is full of criminals, and if they root through her stuff as much as she does theirs, Selina definitely doesn't want to keep her limited treasures there.

Selina locks the door and dresses quickly, but light scratching at the door causes her to open it again. Her cat, Otto, is waiting on the other side.

"Hey buddy," Selina greets softly. Otto meows in amicable reply and rubs against her shins.

"Hungry, huh?" Another meow.

After feeding the far-from-starving animal, Selina follows Otto to the window. She cracks it slightly and he quickly slips through—no doubt off to terrorize the sleeping birds in Ivy's garden. Musical laughter floats up through the screen, and through the darkness Selina sees a strange sight. Fish and a grocery truck delivery driver are chatting beneath a street lamp adjacent to the restaurant. Selina feels blood boil underneath her skin at seeing Fish, but for the second time that evening, she's struck by curiosity with Fish's behavior. Fish rarely bothers herself with restaurant business.

 _That_ is Oswald's burden.

Incidentally, Oswald appears in the back-entrance doorway struggling with a few large, dark cloth bags in his arms. A bag slips from his fingertip to the ground. Selina watches as Fish pauses her conversation to bark something at Oswald, who scrambles to gather the bags together and catch up to her. Fish treats Oswald as an accessory, a bag boy, a servant, an idiot, and he eagerly acts like one for her— _acts_ being the key word.

After some snooping, Selina found a terrible secret beneath Oswald's mattress: not dirty magazines nor Butch's missing Party-Mix CD, but rather blurry photos and incomplete files from the Falcone Dynasty suggesting Fish's involvement in the murder of Oswald's mother many, many years earlier. When Selina had found these inexplicable and outlandish files, she had been surprised that Oswald hadn't acted out yet. From what he'd told her, Gertrude Kapelput was his whole world, so the thought of Fish having anything to do with her death would no doubt put Oswald into a blind rage. Restraint: not his strong suit.

She suspected he was crafting together a convoluted plan for revenge, though sifting through his belongings wouldn't have been necessary to notice the hatred in his eyes. Selina had considered telling Fish what she knows, but her loyalties to Oswald and Fish are the same. While Fish is her foster mother, the one who saved her from wasting her adolescence trying to escape the prison-like orphanage, Oswald is the one who really raised her. He devoted the time to help her develop the traits she needed to be successful in Gotham's criminal underworld. He taught her how to act, and he taught her how to lie. _He's the best liar I know,_ she thinks, watching him stumble along after Fish, easily playing the part of a timid underling.

"Hey!" Jerome's voice breaks her concentration. "You're back!" Selina looks up to see him leaning comfortably against her doorframe, and burning anger blooms within her chest.

"No thanks to you," she says, eyes narrow.

Jerome sends her a skeptical look. "Wasn't _my_ fault he scrammed," he reasons, strolling into her room.

"Nope!" Selina storms toward her intruder, pointing at the door. "Get out!"

"Make me," he snorts, opening a dresser drawer and shutting it disappointedly when he finds nothing inside.

The urge to throttle his pasty neck swamps her, but she pushes it aside as something comes to light in her head: the memory of Jerome being dragged away to the cages, sobbing and screaming. "So how was your weekend?" she smirks, "Cold and lonely, just like you?"

Jerome cackles sharply and bypasses the question with ease. "Why are you so tense?" he goads, wiggling his brows, "You know, I can help with that."

Her reply is terse. "You can help me by leaving."

Jerome continues his approach, grinning down at her. He is, annoyingly, nearly a head taller than her. However, most people have the advantage of height on Selina, and it hasn't helped her opponents before. He stops a few inches before her, his silent looming causing a strong feeling of discomfort to ooze down her spine. Jerome plucks a curl of wet hair from her shoulder, twisting it in his long fingers.

She slaps his hand away. "What the hell—"

He snatches the strand back and pulls it to his nose, inhaling deeply. "You smell _so_ good," he mutters huskily with heavy lidded eyes.

With the heel of her palm she shoves Jerome's face away, using enough force to knock him to the ground. "Freak!" she gasps, her pulse thumping furiously in her ears and throbbing painfully through her head injury. Jerome bursts into full hysterical laughter. He writhes about the floor, his body wracked with boisterous cackles.

"GET OUT!"

Jerome rolls onto his knees and rises from the floor, still chuckling mirthfully despite her rage.

He pauses in the doorway. "Call me if you get lonely," Jerome croons, his mouth still stretched into a wicked smile.

 _Thunk._

Jerome's eyes cross to see a wobbling throwing knife sticking out of the doorframe, literal centimeters away. He glances back at Selina, who squares her shoulders and flashes her middle finger at him.

"Don't play hard-to-get, cupcake. It's unbecoming," he suggests, indulging in another round of laughter when Selina holds up another knife.

"You have three seconds before I shish-kebob your dumb ass," she threatens, her whole body language bristling with fury.

"Now, Cat," Jerome chides evily, "that's not very sisterly of you."

He dashes out of the way of the projectile knife, giggling uncontrollably as he rightly hurries down the hall. The small throwing-knife-shaped scar on his thigh proves that this is a lesson not to be skipped.

Only when Selina is sure that he's gone, she releases a shaky breath that she'd been holding in, briefly squeezes her eyes closed, and then goes to dig her knives out of the perforated wall.

.

* * *

.

"Your aura is a mess."

Selina rolls her eyes at Ivy Pepper, her younger foster sister. Unlike Selina, Ivy had embraced her "space" resulting in a room that resembles the offspring that a messy library and a greenery would make. Books, potted plants, dirty laundry, shopping bags, and makeup tubes litter the floor. Selina easily tiptoes through the mess to crawl onto the comfy bed Ivy is perched on.

Before Selina can collapse, Ivy snatches a tiny container of dirt that sits on the blanket behind Selina and holds it in the air. "Watch it!" Ivy scolds, holding her jar safely away from her blithe guest. "What're you doing?"

Selina begins to make a pillow pile from Ivy's infinite supply of soft and cute bed accessories. She says between yawning, "I saw your light on. Why are you still up?" It isn't a complete lie; she'd been walking the halls trying to rid herself of the anxious energy she'd attained from her and Jerome's interaction when she decided to visit, light or no light. The light was a happy accident.

Ivy hops off the bed to a cluttered shelf and trades her jar of dirt for a teacup. "Fish gave me off tomorrow," Ivy says, smiling toothily, "and I'm trying to make the most of my time." Ivy switches on a hotplate for her kettle, happy to not be working at a Bunsen burner for once. As a kid Ivy had enjoyed science, of course botany topping all else. She impressed all her teachers in school, though they were impressed when a kid could _identify_ a book, much less read it. Ivy had lived in the orphanage for only a couple of weeks before Fish had found her but it was the worst time of her life. When Fish offered to foster her in exchange for using her proficiency in science for her business, Ivy couldn't have been happier. Once she realized Fish's business was drugs and she was to be a manufacturer, it was all trivial minutiae. She had a family. A better family. It was all that mattered, and that belief hasn't left her yet.

Selina flops back into her cushy pillow pile, reveling in the softness. "I guess you have big plans, huh?" Selina ventures, muffled beneath a giant teddy bear.

"Yup!" Ivy pops the 'p' in the affirmative as she rescues a stray spoon from the floor. Shrugging, she blows it off and sticks it in the cup. "Now sit up!" she orders. Selina groans and hugs the soft bear tightly to her face, but rolls herself into a sitting position nonetheless.

"Drink this," Ivy instructs, and Selina eyes it warily. "Come on," she encourages with a smile, pushing the cup into Selina's hands. Selina squints at the celery colored liquid and is concerned about what the floating blobs within it could be.

"Pass," Selina says flatly, offering the cup back to Ivy. Selina rolls her eyes when the younger girl starts a long-winded rant about how Selina _never_ does _anything_ for her and if she could _just this once_ try something new she'd _never_ make her drink _anything_ ever _again_. Selina knows this is bullshit, as she has heard this argument a thousand times before, but slurps up a mouthful of the broth anyway.

Selina's face immediately scrunches up as her eyes go round in horror.

"Swallow it," Ivy urges excitedly, reaching for the cup.

"Ugh!" Selina gags, scrubbing her tongue with her fingers, "This tastes like mold!"

"Shush, I'm reading your leaves," Ivy scolds, pleased with herself. Selina glowers back at her and continues to wipe her tongue and lips with her hand.

Ivy peers into the teacup and hums. "Bad omen," she comments sagely. Selina doesn't ask for an explanation when Ivy says things like this. She knows Ivy never has one, but if she did, Selina would be afraid that the strange red head may not be insane and her premonitions could come true. As it is, Selina's always vaguely on the lookout for Ivy's description of "a tall, dark, and handsome man who will rob you blind,". This prophecy was particularly grating for Selina because if it's all a joke, Ivy is suggesting that someone could steal from _her_ , Selina Kyle—master thief. But if it's not a joke, someday a tall, dark, handsome man may attempt to steal from _her_ , Selina Kyle—master thief. Both options are unacceptable, but she supposes there's no honor among thieves. Either way she watches her back vigilantly.

Ivy is strangely quiet. Selina looks over to see hazel eyes staring back at her, teeming with worry.

Selina scowls. "Quit lookin' at me."

Ivy scooches closer. "Sorry. It's just that-" she pauses to push her red hair behind her ear, the metal bangles on her wrist clinking softly "-It's just, you look troubled, is all."

Selina knows the disgusting blob water didn't tell Ivy anything. Her shower may have gotten rid of all the dirt and dried blood, but it couldn't get rid of her red-rimmed eyes or her sallow, sunken cheeks. Stress has a way of showing itself, whether you acknowledge it or not. "Troubled? Me?" Selina scoffs anyway, inching away from Ivy and her unwanted concern.

"So why was Jerome in the cages all weekend?" Ivy questions.

Selina shrugs. "He was just bein' a dumbass."

"Like usual," Ivy comments, again scooching to close the distance Selina keeps making. "So then… where have _you_ been?"

"Around."

"Doing what?"

"Stuff for Fish."

Ivy thinks this over. "Pearl stuff?" she asks, referring to Fish's brand narcotic. The official street name is Blood Pearls, because of their spherical shape and iridescent red shimmer. Ivy continues solemnly, "I know you don't like hurting people. That what happened?" She draws a vertical line down her palm with her index finger, indicating Fish's signature punishment to those who've wronged her. Neither of the girls have that scar—yet.

Selina sighs and pulls away from her friend. "I…I need to go to sleep."

Ivy launches off the bed to stand between Selina and the exit. She's slightly taller than Selina, but not by much, and her skin-and-bones figure is anything but menacing. However, her intense glare is terrifying. "Not until you tell me what happened!"

Selina can't talk about this with Ivy, _especially_ with Ivy. "Seriously, I need to get some sleep."

"No!" Ivy insists stubbornly, blocking Selina again when she moves to get past.

Selina sighs and rubs the space between her eyes. "Listen. You just… You can't imagine how shitty the last few days have been."

"Then tell me!" Ivy cries, apparently not caring that the rest of the house is certainly asleep by now and that the younger kids have school in the morning.

"Tell you what?" Selina replies at equal volume. "How Fish kicked me out? Or how about the crack in my skull, which feels _great_ by the way. Do you wanna know about how I got shot at by a bunch of douchebags in a cemetery?" Selina is shouting now, but she can't stop. Her voice cracks, "How I _let_ the guy get away because I was thinking about-" Selina stops mid-sentence, eyes wide.

"Thinking about?" Ivy prompts after moments of tense silence.

Selina's mind is whirring. Thinking about? Thinking about the boy from the alley with the dark grey eyes and air of familiarity? The boy from _today_ with the insomnia-riddled eyes and the _certainty_ of familiarity? No. Selina can't tell Ivy. At least, she can't tell her his name.

"A boy," Selina reveals quietly, immediately shocked that the confession actually left her mouth. Ivy looks shocked too. Selina takes the opportunity to duck past her and into the hallway.

"A boy," Ivy marvels, a tiny smile on her lips.

.

* * *

.

Despite her exhaustion, her bedsheets are still neatly in place as she paces restlessly around the room. Inwardly she curses herself. _Why did Ivy have to pry? She'll never let it go now. Stupid, stupid, stupid._

A heavy, metallic knock at her door relieves Selina from her contrite thoughts.

Selina calls out a greeting without opening the door. " 'sup Butch?"

"Open up, Cat," Butch replies gruffly, knocking once more for good measure. The door swings open. "Boss wants to see you right away," Butch tells her, lowering his metal hand. "How'd you know it was me?"

Selina smirks. "It sounded like someone was banging a toaster on my door." She gestures at his hand. "Not exactly difficult to figure out, buddy."

"Oh right." Butch makes a face. "Sometimes I forget it's even there."

"That's probably something to keep in mind on your next stealth job," quips Selina, pulling on a jacket.

"Hey," Butch stops her, looking perplexed. Selina thinks he may impart some knowledge about her meeting, to prepare her for Fish's temper or warn her to move to France, but she's let down when he asks, "You seen my Party-Mix CD?"

She snorts. "Nope, but if I see it, I'll hide it in a better spot."

Despite her levity, her heart is tight in her throat. As she makes her way back to the restaurant, Selina decides to bury her troubled thoughts of Jerome and Ivy and a certain life-rendering "boy" to focus on the situation at hand. She begins mentally listing off the reasons why Fish would want to see her after their tense conversation earlier, coming up with no positive answers. Selina sighs. She'd been hoping to avoid Fish for longer than a few hours. More like forever. But here she is, going back to Fish like she always does.

"Selina! Darling, please come in!" Fish greets her, standing from her desk and opening her arms welcomingly. Selina frowns.

"This a trick?" the girl questions, looking around warily.

Fish chuckles heartily, pressing a hand to her chest. "You are a stitch! Come in, come in! We have something to discuss."

Selina's reply is laced with suspicion. "Like what?" She slips into a seat in front of Fish's desk as Fish herself sits back in her ornate, red velvet chair. The lamps are off, and the security monitors that line the wall are on, but blank white, giving Fish and the space around her an eerie glow.

Fish walks her slender fingers along the desk. "Do you want to keep bringing our sweet little psychopath Jerome on your assignments?"

Selina scoffs. "Like I want a fork in my eye."

"That's what I thought." Fish extends her hand to Selina, who cautiously accepts it. Fish lowers her head in a conspiratory fashion and Selina follows suit. "I have a job that I trust _only_ you with," Fish whispers, clasping Selina's hand with both of hers.

"You're weirding me out," Selina states, bewilderment obvious in her expression.

" _Selina_ ," Fish hisses, gaining her attention, "What I'm going to ask you to do may shock you, but you're going to stay calm, and you're going to say 'yes'."

The younger girl pulls an annoyed face. "Yeah? What makes you think that?"

Fish squeezes her hand and murmurs forebodingly, "Because karma is a bitch." Her next words cause Selina's heart to drop.

"Do you remember Bruce Wayne? Ah," Fish notes Selina's horrorstruck expression and nods grimly, "-of course you do."

.

* * *

.

 **Yo! Sorry this update took absolutely forever. School is ruining my life. So I have one more "introduction" chapter to post before we can get into the meat of the story, but that's when my initial thoughts for this story will unfold so I'm excited for the next few chapters! Our babies are about to collide. I really just want to set the tone for where these characters are right now and I hope I'm not boring you all!**

 **Anyway, I'd like to thank my reviewers from the bottom of my heart, and everyone else who favorited, followed, and read. I'm thrilled by your kind words and enthusiasm, but I'm feeling nervous about your response to this chapter. You guys are the heroe** **s I need but don't deserve!**


	4. The Mooney Bin

The Mooney Bin

.

* * *

.

A weighty briefcase with a blood-stamped handprint skids across Fish's desk, knocking over trinkets and papers as it skids to a teetering stop.

"There's your money!" Selina throws over her shoulder, already stalking out of Fish's office. It isn't until she reaches the end of the hallway that she realizes Fish isn't screaming threats or profanities after her, and she becomes curious.

"Fish?" Selina pokes her head into Fish's office. The kingpin is sitting at her desk, hand wrapped around a vintage corded phone's long handle, staring vacantly at the wall of black-and-white security camera monitors. The briefcase still wavers at the edge of the desk, unnoticed.

"Uh, Fish?" Selina prompts, stepping into the dimly lit room. "The money?"

Fish blinks but doesn't look away from the televisions. She taps her aqua nails along the metal phone handle, making soft plinks.

Selina bounces on her toes. "There's a bonus in there too," she offers, looking nonplussed at her boss's unusual demeanor. It's as if Fish is in a trance.

Selina is wondering if Ivy was trying her hand at hypnotism again when Fish speaks. "You can leave now," she says coolly, still watching the monitors. Selina blinks in confusion and straightens up.

"Seriously? No 'sorry for kicking you out, Selina'?" the young woman protests, mimicking Fish's voice.

"I do have something to say, actually," Fish divulges, finally turning to face her pseudo-daughter. She carefully looks Selina up and down, taking in her unkempt appearance. "You look like you've been living in a pig-pen," Fish says, adopting an expression of sheer disgust, "and you smell like an ulcer packed with garbage. Now, leave." She turns back to her previous position without further comment.

Selina's mouth hinges open. She's spent the last three nights sleeping on the streets with a raging concussion, fighting off street lunatics and dodging cops, and was then forced to relive one of the worst moments of her life, a moment she had hoped to bury within her mind forever, _all_ for Fish Mooney! And she opts to ignore and then insult her? No. No way.

"Screw you," Selina bites back.

Fish's brows snap together and her eyes widen. "What the _hell_ did you just say to me, girl?" she demands, shoving away from her desk to stand.

"I said SCREW YOU!" Selina shouts, quaking in her anger.

"GET OUT OF HERE!" Fish screams back, flinging her pointed finger at the door. Selina needs no further bidding. She slams the door behind her as she surges away from Fish, out to the hallway to climb the small winding staircase two steps at a time. The staircase opens into the restaurant kitchen closet, whose door she also slams closed. The building is shut for the evening so she doesn't have to worry about alerting anyone to her presence, but even if there were people around she wouldn't care. _Screw Fish_. She stalks across the restaurant to the front door but pauses when she catches her reflection in a decorative mirror. She peers into the ornamental frame, scrutinizing the person in front of her.

Her coffee curls are wild and itchy, unruly from the last few days of neglect. Cement powder and dried blood are caked onto her clothes and face. She blows a stray hair tendril from her eyes and feels her anger begin to give way to exhaustion.

 _Maybe a hot shower isn't such a bad idea._

She makes her way toward Fish's estate and an hour later, Selina is standing in a steam-filled bathroom. With a toothbrush hanging out of her mouth, Selina rubs at the red indents left on her skin from the tight, protective fabric she wears. Without a readily available change of clothes, Selina had felt the same seams pressing into the same spots on her body for days. She spits into the sink and runs her tongue along her teeth in disappointment. Not even the minty-est of toothpastes can completely delete the mingling taste of dust and plaque harboring in her mouth. She begins to peel a comb through her wet, messy curls in vain, and winces sharply when she runs the comb over the bruise on her scalp. The last few days have caused her nothing but harm. Her muscles are sore, her skin is black-and-blue, and her sanity? Oh god. She'll never be sane again.

"So what?" she asks her reflection, zeroing in on her sunken eyes, "No one else in this house is. Might as well join them." Her throat begins to swell when her mutinous brain reminds her of the painful events of the day.

She whips the comb onto the countertop in frustration, shaking the thoughts away, and concedes to wrap herself in a towel for the trek back to her space. She refuses to call it her "room". Her bare feet pad down the hallway and she's anxious to put her shoes on. As her mother, her _real_ mother, used to say, "Naked feet's safety, and you're never safe."

The room is practical at best. Aside from some small ceramic bowls meant for cat food in the corner and a modest stack of clothing in the closet, the space looks precisely how it was when she arrived at the house 12 years earlier. She reasons that the house is full of criminals, and if they root through her stuff as much as she does theirs, Selina definitely doesn't want to keep her limited treasures there.

Selina locks the door and dresses quickly, but light scratching at the door causes her to open it again. Her cat, Otto, is waiting on the other side.

"Hey buddy," Selina greets softly. Otto meows in amicable reply and rubs against her shins.

"Hungry, huh?" Another meow.

After feeding the far-from-starving animal, Selina follows Otto to the window. She cracks it slightly and he quickly slips through—no doubt off to terrorize the sleeping birds in Ivy's garden. Musical laughter floats up through the screen, and through the darkness Selina sees a strange sight. Fish and a grocery truck delivery driver are chatting beneath a street lamp adjacent to the restaurant. Selina feels blood boil underneath her skin at seeing Fish, but for the second time that evening, she's struck by curiosity with Fish's behavior. Fish rarely bothers herself with restaurant business.

 _That_ is Oswald's burden.

Incidentally, Oswald appears in the back-entrance doorway struggling with a few large, dark cloth bags in his arms. A bag slips from his fingertip to the ground. Selina watches as Fish pauses her conversation to bark something at Oswald, who scrambles to gather the bags together and catch up to her. Fish treats Oswald as an accessory, a bag boy, a servant, an idiot, and he eagerly acts like one for her— _acts_ being the key word.

After some snooping, Selina found a terrible secret beneath Oswald's mattress: not dirty magazines nor Butch's missing Party-Mix CD, but rather blurry photos and incomplete files from the Falcone Dynasty suggesting Fish's involvement in the murder of Oswald's mother many, many years earlier. When Selina had found these inexplicable and outlandish files, she had been surprised that Oswald hadn't acted out yet. From what he'd told her, Gertrude Kapelput was his whole world, so the thought of Fish having anything to do with her death would no doubt put Oswald into a blind rage. Restraint: not his strong suit.

She suspected he was crafting together a convoluted plan for revenge, though sifting through his belongings wouldn't have been necessary to notice the hatred in his eyes. Selina had considered telling Fish what she knows, but her loyalties to Oswald and Fish are the same. While Fish is her foster mother, the one who saved her from wasting her adolescence trying to escape the prison-like orphanage, Oswald is the one who really raised her. He devoted the time to help her develop the traits she needed to be successful in Gotham's criminal underworld. He taught her how to act, and he taught her how to lie. _He's the best liar I know,_ she thinks, watching him stumble along after Fish, easily playing the part of a timid underling.

"Hey!" Jerome's voice breaks her concentration. "You're back!" Selina looks up to see him leaning comfortably against her doorframe, and burning anger blooms within her chest.

"No thanks to you," she says, eyes narrow.

Jerome sends her a skeptical look. "Wasn't _my_ fault he scrammed," he reasons, strolling into her room.

"Nope!" Selina storms toward her intruder, pointing at the door. "Get out!"

"Make me," he snorts, opening a dresser drawer and shutting it disappointedly when he finds nothing inside.

The urge to throttle his pasty neck swamps her, but she pushes it aside as something comes to light in her head: the memory of Jerome being dragged away to the cages, sobbing and screaming. "So how was your weekend?" she smirks, "Cold and lonely, just like you?"

Jerome cackles sharply and bypasses the question with ease. "Why are you so tense?" he goads, wiggling his brows, "You know, I can help with that."

Her reply is terse. "You can help me by leaving."

Jerome continues his approach, grinning down at her. He is, annoyingly, nearly a head taller than her. However, most people have the advantage of height on Selina, and it hasn't helped her opponents before. He stops a few inches before her, his silent looming causing a strong feeling of discomfort to ooze down her spine. Jerome plucks a curl of wet hair from her shoulder, twisting it in his long fingers.

She slaps his hand away. "What the hell—"

He snatches the strand back and pulls it to his nose, inhaling deeply. "You smell _so_ good," he mutters huskily with heavy lidded eyes.

With the heel of her palm she shoves Jerome's face away, using enough force to knock him to the ground. "Freak!" she gasps, her pulse thumping furiously in her ears and throbbing painfully through her head injury. Jerome bursts into full hysterical laughter. He writhes about the floor, his body wracked with boisterous cackles.

"GET OUT!"

Jerome rolls onto his knees and rises from the floor, still chuckling mirthfully despite her rage.

He pauses in the doorway. "Call me if you get lonely," Jerome croons, his mouth still stretched into a wicked smile.

 _Thunk._

Jerome's eyes cross to see a wobbling throwing knife sticking out of the doorframe, literal centimeters away. He glances back at Selina, who squares her shoulders and flashes her middle finger at him.

"Don't play hard-to-get, cupcake. It's unbecoming," he suggests, indulging in another round of laughter when Selina holds up another knife.

"You have three seconds before I shish-kebob your dumb ass," she threatens, her whole body language bristling with fury.

"Now, Cat," Jerome chides evily, "that's not very sisterly of you."

He dashes out of the way of the projectile knife, giggling uncontrollably as he rightly hurries down the hall. The small throwing-knife-shaped scar on his thigh proves that this is a lesson not to be skipped.

Only when Selina is sure that he's gone, she releases a shaky breath that she'd been holding in, briefly squeezes her eyes closed, and then goes to dig her knives out of the perforated wall.

.

* * *

.

"Your aura is a mess."

Selina rolls her eyes at Ivy Pepper, her younger foster sister. Unlike Selina, Ivy had embraced her "space" resulting in a room that resembles the offspring that a messy library and a greenery would make. Books, potted plants, dirty laundry, shopping bags, and makeup tubes litter the floor. Selina easily tiptoes through the mess to crawl onto the comfy bed Ivy is perched on.

Before Selina can collapse, Ivy snatches a tiny container of dirt that sits on the blanket behind Selina and holds it in the air. "Watch it!" Ivy scolds, holding her jar safely away from her blithe guest. "What're you doing?"

Selina begins to make a pillow pile from Ivy's infinite supply of soft and cute bed accessories. She says between yawning, "I saw your light on. Why are you still up?" It isn't a complete lie; she'd been walking the halls trying to rid herself of the anxious energy she'd attained from her and Jerome's interaction when she decided to visit, light or no light. The light was a happy accident.

Ivy hops off the bed to a cluttered shelf and trades her jar of dirt for a teacup. "Fish gave me off tomorrow," Ivy says, smiling toothily, "and I'm trying to make the most of my time." Ivy switches on a hotplate for her kettle, happy to not be working at a Bunsen burner for once. As a kid Ivy had enjoyed science, of course botany topping all else. She impressed all her teachers in school, though they were impressed when a kid could _identify_ a book, much less read it. Ivy had lived in the orphanage for only a couple of weeks before Fish had found her but it was the worst time of her life. When Fish offered to foster her in exchange for using her proficiency in science for her business, Ivy couldn't have been happier. Once she realized Fish's business was drugs and she was to be a manufacturer, it was all trivial minutiae. She had a family. A better family. It was all that mattered, and that belief hasn't left her yet.

Selina flops back into her cushy pillow pile, reveling in the softness. "I guess you have big plans, huh?" Selina ventures, muffled beneath a giant teddy bear.

"Yup!" Ivy pops the 'p' in the affirmative as she rescues a stray spoon from the floor. Shrugging, she blows it off and sticks it in the cup. "Now sit up!" she orders. Selina groans and hugs the soft bear tightly to her face, but rolls herself into a sitting position nonetheless.

"Drink this," Ivy instructs, and Selina eyes it warily. "Come on," she encourages with a smile, pushing the cup into Selina's hands. Selina squints at the celery colored liquid and is concerned about what the floating blobs within it could be.

"Pass," Selina says flatly, offering the cup back to Ivy. Selina rolls her eyes when the younger girl starts a long-winded rant about how Selina _never_ does _anything_ for her and if she could _just this once_ try something new she'd _never_ make her drink _anything_ ever _again_. Selina knows this is bullshit, as she has heard this argument a thousand times before, but slurps up a mouthful of the broth anyway.

Selina's face immediately scrunches up as her eyes go round in horror.

"Swallow it," Ivy urges excitedly, reaching for the cup.

"Ugh!" Selina gags, scrubbing her tongue with her fingers, "This tastes like mold!"

"Shush, I'm reading your leaves," Ivy scolds, pleased with herself. Selina glowers back at her and continues to wipe her tongue and lips with her hand.

Ivy peers into the teacup and hums. "Bad omen," she comments sagely. Selina doesn't ask for an explanation when Ivy says things like this. She knows Ivy never has one, but if she did, Selina would be afraid that the strange red head may not be insane and her premonitions could come true. As it is, Selina's always vaguely on the lookout for Ivy's description of "a tall, dark, and handsome man who will rob you blind,". This prophecy was particularly grating for Selina because if it's all a joke, Ivy is suggesting that someone could steal from _her_ , Selina Kyle—master thief. But if it's not a joke, someday a tall, dark, handsome man may attempt to steal from _her_ , Selina Kyle—master thief. Both options are unacceptable, but she supposes there's no honor among thieves. Either way she watches her back vigilantly.

Ivy is strangely quiet. Selina looks over to see hazel eyes staring back at her, teeming with worry.

Selina scowls. "Quit lookin' at me."

Ivy scooches closer. "Sorry. It's just that-" she pauses to push her red hair behind her ear, the metal bangles on her wrist clinking softly "-It's just, you look troubled, is all."

Selina knows the disgusting blob water didn't tell Ivy anything. Her shower may have gotten rid of all the dirt and dried blood, but it couldn't get rid of her red-rimmed eyes or her sallow, sunken cheeks. Stress has a way of showing itself, whether you acknowledge it or not. "Troubled? Me?" Selina scoffs anyway, inching away from Ivy and her unwanted concern.

"So why was Jerome in the cages all weekend?" Ivy questions.

Selina shrugs. "He was just bein' a dumbass."

"Like usual," Ivy comments, again scooching to close the distance Selina keeps making. "So then… where have _you_ been?"

"Around."

"Doing what?"

"Stuff for Fish."

Ivy thinks this over. "Pearl stuff?" she asks, referring to Fish's brand narcotic. The official street name is Blood Pearls, because of their spherical shape and iridescent red shimmer. Ivy continues solemnly, "I know you don't like hurting people. That what happened?" She draws a vertical line down her palm with her index finger, indicating Fish's signature punishment to those who've wronged her. Neither of the girls have that scar—yet.

Selina sighs and pulls away from her friend. "I…I need to go to sleep."

Ivy launches off the bed to stand between Selina and the exit. She's slightly taller than Selina, but not by much, and her skin-and-bones figure is anything but menacing. However, her intense glare is terrifying. "Not until you tell me what happened!"

Selina can't talk about this with Ivy, _especially_ with Ivy. "Seriously, I need to get some sleep."

"No!" Ivy insists stubbornly, blocking Selina again when she moves to get past.

Selina sighs and rubs the space between her eyes. "Listen. You just… You can't imagine how shitty the last few days have been."

"Then tell me!" Ivy cries, apparently not caring that the rest of the house is certainly asleep by now and that the younger kids have school in the morning.

"Tell you what?" Selina replies at equal volume. "How Fish kicked me out? Or how about the crack in my skull, which feels _great_ by the way. Do you wanna know about how I got shot at by a bunch of douchebags in a cemetery?" Selina is shouting now, but she can't stop. Her voice cracks, "How I _let_ the guy get away because I was thinking about-" Selina stops mid-sentence, eyes wide.

"Thinking about?" Ivy prompts after moments of tense silence.

Selina's mind is whirring. Thinking about? Thinking about the boy from the alley with the dark grey eyes and air of familiarity? The boy from _today_ with the insomnia-riddled eyes and the _certainty_ of familiarity? No. Selina can't tell Ivy. At least, she can't tell her his name.

"A boy," Selina reveals quietly, immediately shocked that the confession actually left her mouth. Ivy looks shocked too. Selina takes the opportunity to duck past her and into the hallway.

"A boy," Ivy marvels, a tiny smile on her lips.

.

* * *

.

Despite her exhaustion, her bedsheets are still neatly in place as she paces restlessly around the room. Inwardly she curses herself. _Why did Ivy have to pry? She'll never let it go now. Stupid, stupid, stupid._

A heavy, metallic knock at her door relieves Selina from her contrite thoughts.

Selina calls out a greeting without opening the door. " 'sup Butch?"

"Open up, Cat," Butch replies gruffly, knocking once more for good measure. The door swings open. "Boss wants to see you right away," Butch tells her, lowering his metal hand. "How'd you know it was me?"

Selina smirks. "It sounded like someone was banging a toaster on my door." She gestures at his hand. "Not exactly difficult to figure out, buddy."

"Oh right." Butch makes a face. "Sometimes I forget it's even there."

"That's probably something to keep in mind on your next stealth job," quips Selina, pulling on a jacket.

"Hey," Butch stops her, looking perplexed. Selina thinks he may impart some knowledge about her meeting, to prepare her for Fish's temper or warn her to move to France, but she's let down when he asks, "You seen my Party-Mix CD?"

She snorts. "Nope, but if I see it, I'll hide it in a better spot."

Despite her levity, her heart is tight in her throat. As she makes her way back to the restaurant, Selina decides to bury her troubled thoughts of Jerome and Ivy and a certain life-rendering "boy" to focus on the situation at hand. She begins mentally listing off the reasons why Fish would want to see her after their tense conversation earlier, coming up with no positive answers. Selina sighs. She'd been hoping to avoid Fish for longer than a few hours. More like forever. But here she is, going back to Fish like she always does.

"Selina! Darling, please come in!" Fish greets her, standing from her desk and opening her arms welcomingly. Selina frowns.

"This a trick?" the girl questions, looking around warily.

Fish chuckles heartily, pressing a hand to her chest. "You are a stitch! Come in, come in! We have something to discuss."

Selina's reply is laced with suspicion. "Like what?" She slips into a seat in front of Fish's desk as Fish herself sits back in her ornate, red velvet chair. The lamps are off, and the security monitors that line the wall are on, but blank white, giving Fish and the space around her an eerie glow.

Fish walks her slender fingers along the desk. "Do you want to keep bringing our sweet little psychopath Jerome on your assignments?"

Selina scoffs. "Like I want a fork in my eye."

"That's what I thought." Fish extends her hand to Selina, who cautiously accepts it. Fish lowers her head in a conspiratory fashion and Selina follows suit. "I have a job that I trust _only_ you with," Fish whispers, clasping Selina's hand with both of hers.

"You're weirding me out," Selina states, bewilderment obvious in her expression.

" _Selina_ ," Fish hisses, gaining her attention, "What I'm going to ask you to do may shock you, but you're going to stay calm, and you're going to say 'yes'."

The younger girl pulls an annoyed face. "Yeah? What makes you think that?"

Fish squeezes her hand and murmurs forebodingly, "Because karma is a bitch." Her next words cause Selina's heart to drop.

"Do you remember Bruce Wayne? Ah," Fish notes Selina's horrorstruck expression and nods grimly, "-of course you do."

.

* * *

.

 **Yo! Sorry this update took absolutely forever. School is ruining my life. So I have one more "introduction" chapter to post before we can get into the meat of the story, but that's when my initial thoughts for this story will unfold so I'm excited for the next few chapters! Our babies are about to collide. I really just want to set the tone for where these characters are right now and I hope I'm not boring you all!**

 **Anyway, I'd like to thank my reviewers from the bottom of my heart, and everyone else who favorited, followed, and read. I'm thrilled by your kind words and enthusiasm, but I'm feeling nervous about your response to this chapter. You guys are the heroe** **s I need but don't deserve!**


	5. It Gets Worse

**I despise this chapter. I wanted it to be much much shorter, but stuff I thought was necessary to make sense of the plot kept bubbling up and I kept feeling compelled to add it all, and you can only rewrite something so many times before going insane. But please stay seated my beautiful readers, because next up is the moment we've all been waiting for(; And by that I mean not much at all happens… but at least its batcat centered so I think you'll all like it! I'm happy to dive into some "fluff", because to me too much plot gets boring.**

 **Anyways, I'd like to thank my wonderful, gorgeous reviewers Jak Pickens, guest 1, honeylove90, R3wind101, 4EverAGallagherGirl, angellcakes23, guest 2, and all the other followers, favoriters, and readers for sticking with me. Extra SO to KING011 for relentlessly encouraging me to update! I absolutely love the enthusiasm(:**

.

* * *

.

It Gets Worse

.

* * *

.

Bruce leans forward to inspect the strange device. After a failed attempt at a nap and another brief hallucination of a nameless shadowy figure, he'd slowly been on his way to meet the others for the annex tours when he'd noticed it. Where the doorknob should be is instead a futuristic-looking sleek white circle, ringed with a thin light. It's affixed to an office door with the name CROWLEY etched into its opaque glass. He tilts his head in curiosity, having never seen something like it.

"Mister Wayne!" a man's voice calls out. Bruce looks away from the peculiar ring to see two people marching towards him, a man and a woman. The man is tall and in his mid-to-late thirties, and the woman wears a stylish forest-green suit with a silver camellia brooch on her lapel. Bruce recognizes the two board members from the employee dossiers, but their names escape him. "Hello Mister Wayne!" the woman, the President of Wayne Chemicals, greets, extending her hand to him, "My name is Molly Mathis."

Bruce shakes her hand and decides he likes her warm alto voice. "It's a pleasure to meet you," he replies, doing his best to give her a genuinely enthusiastic smile in spite of his exhaustion. "You've done great things with Wayne Chemicals."

Mathis's naturally curly pixie cut bounces as she bobs her head, smiling back gratefully. "Thank you, sir. And this is my associate—"

"Richard Crowley at your service," The man, the President of Wayne Construction, interrupts. He wipes his hand on his pant leg before offering it to Bruce, who accepts the handshake, but more hesitantly than he had Mathis's.

"Did you enjoy your lunch?" Mathis inquires politely, and guiltily Bruce thinks back to the untouched gourmet braised leeks and scallop sashimi he'd hidden beneath his napkin when Sid and Lucius were busy. Bruce hates wasting food, but his uneasy demeanor wouldn't allow him to stomach the rich food, and he couldn't _not_ eat with his two new colleagues.

"Very much," he fibs with an uneven smile, "I can see why it's a company favorite." Mathis smiles back approvingly.

"I see you've noticed my door knob, or lack-there-of," Crowley notes with amusement, motioning toward the dark glass door Bruce had been studying. The younger man makes the connection that the Crowley in front of him is the Crowley whose name is on the door. "What is it?" Bruce asks.

Crowley grins. "Let me show you." He demonstrates by pushing his index finger against the white glass, causing the ring of light to glow green, followed by the click of his door unlocking. Crowley shoots Bruce a self-satisfied look. "Pretty cool, huh?"

"It's very…interesting," Bruce agrees undecidedly, wondering why it's the first one he's seen in the building, and why his _own_ office key is so archaic that it's blackened.

Crowley nods enthusiastically. "I got it all the way from Sweden. Accidentally donated a big chunk of money to some kook with a SupplyMeMoney account, and I was like, _how am I going to pay for my new Porsche now?_ But she really came through," Crowley continues theatrically, obviously delighted to have someone new to talk about the device with. Bruce ponders how one can donate to something "accidentally", but the flask peeking out of Crowley's inner jacket pocket instantly answers his question.

Mathis clears her throat. "Well, we were just coming to gather you. Are you ready to leave?" She asks, a hint of impatience in her voice. Clearly she'd heard about Crowley's high-tech doorknob before.

"Yes, I'm eager to get started," Bruce lies, wanting to sound professional and collected despite his field of vision suddenly becoming a dark, shadowy blur. It's like he's stuck in a nightmare, but with the added annoyance of having been dilated by an evil optometrist.

He's sick to the back teeth. The sleeping medication's lingering impact has affected Bruce to the point of being unable to trust himself, which is unacceptable to him both as the CEO of a multibillion dollar company and personally, simply just as himself. Trust doesn't come easily to the young man, usually being reserved for only himself and Alfred. Taking fifty percent of that group away has been detrimental to Bruce's confidence over the last couple days, because now his only anchor to reality is Alfred—and Alfred still keeps his stash of freeze-dried rations from his time in the military beneath his bed, alongside an emergency apocalypse kit. _You never know, sir_ , he hears Alfred's mystified voice say, and the questionable wisdom echoes within Bruce's brain.

Bruce briefly shakes his head to attempt to gain focus through his foggy mind, wondering if this paper-thin façade will even last the day.

.

* * *

.

"Welcome to the Wayne Constructions Annex, Mister Wayne," Crowley says proudly, stepping aside so Bruce can see the building in its entirety. It looks like any other functional grey warehouse in the area, besides the silver WAYNE ENTERPRISES logo displayed above the door and the massive barbed-wire fence surrounding the property. Hundreds of employees are waiting for him in the parking lot, and Bruce sincerely hopes that the large accumulations of staff he's seen are only there to impress him on the first day, and not a normal occurrence. Bruce is used to a one-man (Alfred) reception, and he'd be lying if he said the large crowds weren't unsettling to him. Especially today, when hallucinations are apparently ordinary for the young billionaire.

As he surveys the hundreds of welcoming faces, he feels something heavy sink into his stomach. His mouth becomes dry and his heart rate picks up slightly, just enough to alert him that something is _off_. Paradoxically, the odd part about the situation is that he _doesn't_ see any apparitions, suspicious shadows, or ghoulish employees. Everyone, everything, looks ordinary to the point of being dull. His eyes narrow in confusion. Could it finally be his once-sharp intuition, breaking through his psychoses to warn him of something? Bruce's fingers curl into fists as he carefully studies the surroundings. The faces are friendly but tired, the sky is a cloudy grey, and the only noises detectable are the employees' chatter and a soft city-scape din. But wait—

The glimpse is just a fraction of a second, but it's enough. A flash of wild caramel curls atop a neighboring warehouse. The fresh memory of a girl, _the_ girl, and her red-headed male companion hopping effortlessly through a maze of fire escapes and racing over the top of the building comes to mind, and Bruce's stomach does a flip. _It isn't_ im _-possible_ , Bruce thinks, excitement buzzing in his abdomen, replacing the previous dread near completely. _But why would she be here?_

Bruce has a sudden fantasy that the girl is wondering about him as much as he's been thinking about her, and his stomach does somersaults. Maybe he won't have to find her; maybe she's found him.

"Mister Wayne?" Crowley interrupts his distracted thoughts. Bruce tears his eyes away from the spot to frown at the Wayne construction president. "Are you ready?" Crowley asks, a practiced smile high on his cheeks.

Bruce glances back at the rooftop and nearly gasps when he sees another movement, but feels utterly embarrassed when he sees that the movement is from a pigeon flapping down onto the roof edge. His veins hum with declining adrenaline as disappointment wedges in his throat. Before coming back to Gotham if he were having these feelings, he would know, he would _just know_ , that something is wrong, and would be able to act. He used to be able to trust his body's tells. But now? These apprehensive feelings could mean anything, or nothing. He _could_ have seen the girl's halo of curls, or he could've seen another flying street rat. There's no way to know, now that his mind is useless. _He_ is useless.

Interrupting Bruce's morose thoughts, Crowley unsubtly clears his throat. "Mister Wayne, if you'll follow me?"

Bruce turns back to his impatient host, his face a mask of indifference. He nods curtly and follows in step with Crowley and Mathis, their entourage of employees and security filing in behind.

.

* * *

.

"And _this_ is cement," Crowley announces, gesturing to an enormous stack of grey powder packages. Mathis stifles a yawn behind her fist beside Bruce, who is also having trouble paying attention. His sympathetic state in the parking lot has worn off, leaving him feeling irritable, exhausted, and uninterested in whatever-the-hell Crowley is talking about.

"Oh… um, e-excuse me folks," Crowley's new tone catches Bruce's attention. Bruce notes that Crowley looks decidedly paler than before, and he has a feverish sheen of sweat over his forehead. "I have to take a…a phone call," Crowley continues hurriedly, despite not even having a phone in his hand, "so I'll leave you in the capable hands of my first-in-command." Without waiting, Crowley rushes away with a walking-speed Bruce doubts even professional mall-walkers possess. It's peculiar, but he is too tired and his brain is too muddled for him to care. A man whose name Bruce had neglected to remember steps up, looking curiously after his boss.

"So," the man begins after a beat, "as Mister Crowley was saying, _this_ is cement."

Bruce resists the urge to bash his head against the nearest wall.

.

* * *

.

If Bruce had known that Richard Crowley was going to go missing, he might have paid more attention to the strange behavior of the board member.

"We have to look for him," Bruce insists, shrugging a security guard's hand off his shoulder. Mathis is already crawling into the town car.

"Our security is capable of dealing with this situation," Mathis says readily. "Shall we go on to Wayne Chemicals? I have _much_ to show you."

Bruce's expression fills with confusion. "We can't leave," he says, floored that just _leaving_ could even be an option. "We have to find Crowley."

Mathis's voice is honeyed as she says, "Mister Wayne, I understand your trepidation of the situation. However," she leans closer and discreetly says, "I must let you know that Crowley has substance abuse difficulties. This is not the first time he has left without warning."

Bruce feels a bit of hope spring up when she says this. "Then I'll call around the local places and ask them to watch for him."

Mathis's expression is neutral as she says, "I do not think Crowley would appreciate his name being thrown around the 'local watering holes', especially by his superior."

Bruce immediately thinks of a new idea. "The GCPD would be able to—"

"No!" Mathis stiffens. A nervous smile on her lips, she reasons, "You _must_ understand what kind of scandal that would cause for us."

Bruce grinds his teeth. "We need to do something," he maintains stubbornly, looking around the parking lot at the confused employees that had gathered behind them. "I can lead a search party. This property isn't that large," he suggests, already counting people off into teams of four in his head.

"You are not hearing me," Mathis says tightly, her voice devoid of its previous warmth, "We cannot. Do. Anything."

The young man is surprised at her harsh tone, but isn't offended. People react to crisis in different ways. "I don't expect you to do anything," he says sincerely, lifting his chin, "But if he's in trouble, _I_ have to help him. My employees are my responsibility."

"Mister Wayne," Miss Mathis starts, sounding exasperated, "You are so young, and you have little experience in matters like this. You do not want to make a reputation for yourself by acting so…so _brashly_ on your very first day."

Bruce's expression hardens. "My age is irrelevant, and my reputation is inconsequential when a man is missing."

Mathis seems to understand her mistake. She places her dark hand on his shoulder. "Bruce," she says, her voice kind again, "I like you. I want more than anything for you to succeed here. Please come with me to Wayne Chemicals?" For a few tense moments Bruce and Mathis stare at each other, Mathis's expression pleading and Bruce's impossible to tell.

Mathis is stone-faced when Bruce turns around to shout emphatically, "Anyone who would like to join me in searching for Richard Crowley, meet in the warehouse in five minutes!"

.

* * *

.

By Bruce's orchestration, he, the security guards, and a handful of Wayne Construction employees look for Crowley for nearly three hours with no reward. No note, no real evidence of a struggle; the Wayne Construction President has vanished. As twilight comes and goes, the security team bargains with the disheveled CEO to leave the area for the evening by promising to continue the search, anxious to prove to Bruce that company presidents going missing isn't commonplace and won't be overlooked.

As Bruce walks alone down the corridor leading to his office, loosening then yanking off his dirtied tie, he feels an empty sort of pride welling up in his chest. In the face of exhaustion and imaginary apparitions, Bruce's persevering sense of justice bridled his mind for the greater good. No, they haven't found Crowley yet, but the fact that Bruce was able to pull it together for the man's sake causes Bruce to feel deep relief for his own wellbeing, and therefore Crowley's. The sedative effects will eventually fade and his mind will be his own again. With Bruce at the helm of Wayne Enterprises, they will accomplish amazing things not only for Gotham, but for everyone. He drops the tie around his shoulders, his world suddenly brighter.

Coming up to his office, his eyes are drawn to Crowley's sleek white lock. Bruce's lips thin. Yes, the man is missing, but that doesn't make Crowley's attitude any less arrogant or annoying. Why Crowley is so proud of the door lock is beyond Bruce's thinking. But as he looks closer, he sees a peculiar rusty brown smudge against the pristine white technology. His eyes go wide. Ever since the night Alfred scrubbed his parents' dried blood from Bruce's thin hands and arms, he can recognize it nearly anywhere.

Dread builds in the pit of his stomach as he mentally lists off different possibilities, knowing but not accepting the truth. As he reaches to touch the stain, to feel its crusty texture and be sure of its presence, the shrill ring of a phone makes him pause. Oddly enough, he hears the phone ring within his own office. He unlocks the heavy black door as the phone continues to wail.

Bruce crosses the darkened room to his desk, grabbing the phone from its receiver. "This is Bruce Wayne," he answers, but the other end of the line only replies with static silence. "Hello? This is Bruce Wayne," he repeats, and his suspicion builds as the silence drags on.

A thought hits Bruce like a freight train. "Crowley? Crowley is that you?" he demands, cupping the receiver to his mouth. Instantly the line drops, and an obnoxious beeping sound cuts into Bruce ear. He winces and stares at the phone for a moment before slowly placing the phone back in its holder, his mind racing.

When a shadow flashes through the light from the hallway, Bruce's newfound self-assurance helps him to stay calm. A memory of that afternoon springs to mind, when a flicker of his previous intuition had revealed itself. It wasn't nothing; it wasn't just a pigeon. The girl _had_ been there, maybe even because of him. He hadn't been crazy then, and he isn't crazy now. Bruce chooses this to be true and resolutely, he grabs the first dangerous looking implement on his desk.

Clutching the weaponized stapler, he quietly crosses the room to pause behind the ajar door, alert to any other sounds or movements. His fist curls tightly around the makeshift weapon, ready to react. A floorboard creaks in the hallway and Bruce instantly flings the door open, stapler raised to bludgeon.

"Lucius?" he exclaims, startled to see the kindly CFO standing in front of his door. Lucius jumps in surprise and Bruce immediately hides the stapler behind his back.

Lucius, hand to his chest, lets out an embarrassed laugh. "Mister Wayne! You startled me!"

Bruce smiles widely as his shoulders relax. "I could say the same," he says wryly, leaning against his doorway to more tactfully obscure the stapler he still awkwardly holds. "Do you sneak up on people often?"

Grinning, Lucius shakes his head. "Sorry 'bout that, sir. I've been told I have quiet steps—my brothers always said I had dancers' feet. Anyway, I just wanted to check in and see how the first day was?" He takes in Bruce's unkempt clothing and raises a brow. "It looks like it was interesting."

Bruce lets out a self-deprecating laugh. "It was…" he starts to reply, but then realizes he's at a loss for words. His first day has been full of terror and apprehension, ghouls and rude employees around every corner, obtrusive reporters stalking him from every window, and for god's sake, _a man went missing_! He can't possibly imagine a worse start to his career.

But today also reminded Bruce that he's a natural-born leader, no matter what the situation calls for. His instinctive confidence will stand out regardless of his state of mind, and to Bruce, gaining that knowledge was almost worth living through the horrific day. Almost. A man is still missing, after all.

He shakes his head. "It was… something," Bruce finally says, grinning apologetically for the lame response. And as his mind drifts back to thoughts of Crowley, the Wayne Construction president's door draws his gaze.

 _It's gone!_

The smudge, the blood, is gone, and suddenly it's as if the floor is slipping out from underneath him. He steals in a large gasp, barely restraining himself from launching toward the door, instead digging his nails into the wall woodwork. _No. No, no, no! This can't be happening!_

Alarmed, Lucius glances behind his shoulder, of course seeing nothing. "Mister Wayne?" he prompts, worry creasing his forehead.

Bruce clutches the doorframe, his façade, his mask of indifference slipping, but not yet gone. He refuses to look away from the stupid white finger pad, but will not run at it like a madman in front of Lucius. From where he stands, he can see enough anyway. The blood smudge seemed so real, so unlike any of the other hallucinations. Yet no evidence of his sanity is visible on the white glass disc. He stares on desperately, willing the stain to come back. To tell him he isn't crazy.

"Are you okay, sir?" Lucius asks gently, catching Bruce's eyes and then glancing curiously at the stapler Bruce had let drift into his view.

"Yes. Have a good evening, Mister Fox," Bruce says tersely. He doesn't wait for Lucius's reply before retreating into his office, slamming the heavy, ornate door behind him. For a moment he just stands, letting his emotions roll over him freely. Confusion. Frustration. Regret. Fury. Rage. Self-Hatred. He hurls the stapler into the cocobolo desk, the metal shattering on impact from his excessive force. He drops to his knees among the scattered metal bits and rapidly hammers his fist into the ground, beyond caring if Lucius hears. Let the whole world hear! Let everyone know that Bruce Wayne has officially lost his fucking mind. When blood wets the floor, Bruce sits back on his haunches, shuddering, feeling as though the devil himself had just gargled his brain and spat it back into his cranium. His eyes prickle with unshed tears of devastation.

Crazy.

Useless.

And that's day one.

.

* * *

.

"He is going to be a problem."

Lucius chucks the bloodied handkerchief into the trashcan. "You don't know that," he says steadily, declining to take a seat at the near-empty meeting room at the top of Wayne Enterprises.

"Of course I do," the person across from him sneers. "And anyway," they continue, "he resembles his father far too much. Obviously he needs to go."

"We can't lose Crowley _and_ Bruce in the same week," Lucius points out, avoiding eye-contact with the other. He focuses on the clock affixed to the wall, which reads way too late for any of them to still be at the office. Idly, he wonders what excuse he'll give his wife this time.

The other person toys with the Rolex on their wrist. After some contemplation they say, "Crowley was a broken bit in an excellent machine. Bruce, however, is a thrown wrench, libel to _break_ the machine. Therefore, he needs to be removed."

A retort is on the tip of Lucius's tongue, but he stares on in silence.

"Speaking of Crowley—" the person gestures to the trashcan where the rag hiding the smudge of his blood sits, "what ever happened to the junkie?"

Lucius's eyes bore into the carpet. "One of the gangsters must have got to him. He had that cut-" Lucius draws a line down the center of his palm "—so I just let him take the money, provided he stay away indefinitely."

"I cannot say he will be missed," the other muses, "He was a burden on the rest of us." Again, Lucius replies with silence, which the other matches. They stew in the quiet, the only noise being the wall clock's relentless ticking.

Lucius clears his throat, deciding the silence far too vexing. "Well-" he shuffles on his feet "—I have some books to cook now, thanks to him. I'd better get to it."

"Good evening, Mister Fox," the person dismisses. Lucius nods in response and exits the cavernous room, leaving the person by them-self. Their lips curl back in frustration and from a pocket they pull out a cell phone.

"Get me Fish Mooney," they say to the person who'd picked up.

After another few moments, Fish is on the other end. "What a lovely surprise to hear from you so soon," the kingpin gushes.

The person ignores Fish's platitudes. "Bruce Wayne is back. This _child_ —" they spit, their poised veneer breaking slightly "—thinks himself a man. Thinks he can walk out of business school and run headlong into directing a multibillion dollar company. But he has no idea what goes on in the side lines, and this _little boy_ should be afraid of the dark."

Fish thinks this rant is a bit vague, so hesitantly she replies, "I'm sorry hon, but what can _I_ do for you?"

The other explains simply, "Oh? Hah. I thought it was obvious? I need you to kill him."

.

* * *

.

 **I'm starting a summer class Monday, so I have to assume that the next update won't be up for a few weeks. Hopefully the class won't be too intense and I'll have enough time to keep the updates regular, but I like to plan for the worst.**

 **Remember, BATCAT is up next! You all rock!**


	6. Karma

Karma

.

* * *

.

"Hey… Hey kid, don't cry."

12-year-old Bruce Wayne looks up from his tear soaked palms to see a set of troubled green eyes peering back at him.

Embarrassedly he sniffles and quickly glances away, unwilling to show off his reddened face to this stranger. Tucking his chin into his coat collar, Bruce stares into his lap, wishing for Alfred to appear. He's waiting for his butler-turned-guardian to emerge from the morgue. The coroner needed a second party to identify the bodies, because apparently watching his parents die in his arms hadn't been good enough testimony. Beneath his cuff, Bruce rubs the pads of his fingers together, still feeling their hot, sticky blood on his skin.

"I'm sorry 'bout your parents," the person suddenly says.

With a dour expression Bruce reluctantly picks up his head to accept the plaintive statement, but is taken aback to see a girl, who can't be much older than him, sitting beside him on the uncomfortable GCPD bench. Bruce studies her curiously, his tears belayed. The girl looks rough, from her worn black combat boots to the cracked binocular goggles nestled in her wispy caramel hair. She sits on her partially gloved hands, and restlessly she swings her legs below. Her eyes flit around the station, occasionally landing back on him.

 _I'm sorry._ He'd heard the sentiment a thousand times over the last couple days, but this girl's tone is different. She sounds truly remorseful, and Bruce can't imagine why.

"Thank you," he says uncomfortably, turning away from her then. Bruce doesn't want to talk. Talking just makes it worse.

Instead, Bruce surveys the chaotic police department. The level of noise is almost unbearable, and the officers run around like ants whose hill has been stirred with a stick. He's idly looking for Alfred or Jim Gordon in the crowd when Bruce sees his bench-mate move in his periphery. She holds her hand outstretched toward him, like she's going to touch his shoulder, but then flinches back in hesitation. Bruce holds his breath, unsure of what he'll do if her fingers actually make contact with his sleeve. Luckily he doesn't find out, because her hand goes back underneath her, and her legs begin to swing anxiously again. Good. He doesn't want her pity.

She breaks their silence again. "Hey, um, my name's Cat, by the way," the girl offers weakly, and Bruce confusedly glances back at her, perturbed that she's still trying to make conversation. But when he connects with her striking green eyes, and takes in her imploring expression, he has the foreign sensation of something catching in his throat; something not at all unpleasant.

An introduction on his part seems unnecessary, seeing as she knew about his parents. "I'm Bruce Wayne," he mutters anyway.

Cat smiles lopsidedly, and the smallest ghost of a smile appears on Bruce's lips. A few days ago, he never thought he'd use those facial muscles again.

"Bruce!"

The young billionaire snaps up to notice Jim Gordon making a beeline across the department floor toward them. Even though Bruce stands to meet him, Jim crouches to be at his eye level. He comfortingly takes hold of Bruce's shoulder with his large, warm hand, immediately asking, "Are you okay? Why are you here?"

"I'm fine. Alfred had to..." Bruce pauses, swallowing back the anguish that suddenly overcomes him, "…go to the morgue."

Jim concernedly holds his stare for a few moments, searching for a hint of anything else in Bruce's forced neutral expression, before slowly nodding and straightening up. He taps the radio on his hip and says, "I'll page Ed and tell him to hurry up." His gaze shifts to behind Bruce at Cat, who had been watching the exchange intently, and Jim's expression deflates. "I'm sorry, Bruce," Jim says, suddenly looking like a man with a terminal headache, "but I have some work I need to do right now, if you don't need me for anything?"

"I'm alright, detective. Thank you," Bruce says politely and Jim nods in response, surprising Bruce by waving Cat forward.

"Let's go, Selina," Jim says warily. Bruce's eyes go wide, darting from his bench-mate to the detective.

"It's _Cat_ ," she insists, jumping to her feet. "And it's 'bout time you got here."

Jim shrugs. "As you can see, we're a little swamped today." He gives her a pointed look and adds, "And it took me awhile to find my cuffs after you _dropped them in the sewer_."

Cat purses her lips, fighting a smile. "Com'on," Jim says humorlessly, gesturing for her to follow.

"Just a sec'," she replies, turning to Bruce, who looks like he has a thousand questions waiting on the tip of his tongue. She doesn't hesitate this time when she grabs his shoulder, and Bruce is astonished at the energy he suddenly feels. She squeezes his shoulder lightly, staring into his eyes with a serious expression, and all he can think of is how different this simple gesture is coming from her, rather than Jim Gordon. He feels warm and cold all at once when she sweeps her thumb over his coat sleeve, telling him sincerely, "Have a good life, kid."

And after one last look, Cat disappears into the crowd.

.

* * *

.

Bruce. Fucking. Wayne.

She'd made the connection while waiting for Crowley at Wayne Construction, when she'd seen _him_ standing in the parking lot, and the horrible, guilt-ridden memories hadn't stopped recycling in her mind since then. But it hadn't been until her meeting with Fish that the full revulsion of the situation finally hit her.

Selina is perched on a sturdy oak branch, rhythmically driving her small throwing knife into the tree trunk beside her. Her gaze is fixed on his window, on him. He hasn't moved in hours. Alfred, the other guy from the Maniax alley fight, will occasionally walk into the room carrying a tray of assorted food. _He_ will refuse, the two men will argue, and the butler will storm back out, only to come back again later and have the same events occur. Wash, rinse, repeat. Selina doesn't know what it is that they're fighting about; she hasn't gathered the courage to breach the mansion yet, preferring to skitter around the perimeter of the property, pretending she's surveilling _anyone_ _but_ Bruce Wayne.

Selina stabs at the tree bark, her blank stare never wavering from his window where he sits. She never thought she'd have to see him again, much less stake-out his house—indefinably.

" _They wanted him dead, but I suggested we try it this way first. He doesn't need to die if he isn't a threat,"_ Fish had explained, Fish's own responsibility for Bruce influencing this request.

At the time of the Wayne murders, Fish was fairly new at holding the title of Gotham's most influential crime boss / kingpin. She had a lot to live up to after Carmine Falcone's not-so-mysterious assassination, so to show her newfound power Fish decided to solve the tragic Wayne murders—quickly. Fish framed Mario Pepper, local wife-beating degenerate who no one could miss, by planting Martha Wayne's broken pearls in his shoddy apartment and tipping off the GCPD.

It was by mere chance that her foster daughter, Selina Kyle, had seen the real shooting.

Even though a conviction was impossible, seeing as Detective Harvey Bullock had shot Pepper dead in the alley behind his apartment, the case hadn't been dismissed. The city clambered for justice, for closure. This made Selina's testimony inestimable to the case, as she could describe exactly how things had happened: how Thomas Wayne's wallet had been pitched into the sewer; how Bruce's heart-wrenching screams had bounced off the walls of the empty alleyway as he collapsed beside his dying parents; how she'd heard their last gurgling, agonal breaths.

It didn't matter that Pepper hadn't been the real killer. All that mattered was that Selina said it was, because only she had the credibility to confirm it.

Fish had told her that they'd be doing the Wayne boy a favor by neatly wrapping up the murders, allotting him, and more importantly the city, a fast and satisfying resolution to the case. She wouldn't, _couldn't_ , disobey Fish, so Selina had agreed. Neither of the two women had ever really believed that their lies benefitted Bruce, both knowing they'd robbed him of the justice he deserved, but for nearly a decade they were allowed to forget about it.

But now?

Selina rams her knife into the bark.

It wasn't just that she'd taken away his opportunity to confront his parents' real killer. It was that she'd indirectly helped whomever it was escape scot-free, able to live another day, to birth another orphan for Gotham. For _Fish_. Selina's lips twist, her face hardened. Everything horrible that she's done in her life has been because of Fish. Everything! But for however much it seems like she belongs to Fish, ultimately her actions are still her own. How is she supposed to live with that? Furiously Selina stabs at the tree, sending shards of bark flying in all directions, but she doesn't notice. She wants nothing more than to hide from her past, to start anew. No Fish, no Waynes, no mistakes.

The knife drives into the tree so deeply then that it stays lodged in the wood as she yanks her fist away. Shocked, she glances away from her empty palm to give the stuck knife an angry look. After some prying and much branch wobbling, the knife remains wedged. She exhales sharply through her nose. Stupid, stubborn, phloem. Defeated, she rests her forehead beside the hilt of her weapon against the splintered tree bark, squeezing her eyes shut and weighing her options. Sure, _on paper_ it seems like she can always run away, start anew and all that. But in reality she knows that no matter the distance she puts between herself and Gotham, she'll never escape Fish Mooney.

Selina's eyes pop open, a realization striking her. She may never escape Fish, but perhaps the universe is allowing her to escape Bruce Wayne. The opportunity to save the life of the boy she'd betrayed has dropped into her lap, at minimal personal effort to her. All she has to do is watch and report, and surveillance has always been her cup of tea. It'll be easy work. Yes, it might sting seeing him and reliving the past, but surely she owes him that?

Pointlessly Selina grabs the knife hilt and pulls, but she's amusedly surprised when it remarkably slides out of the tree with ease. She smirks and shakes her head. Allowing herself a final fierce jab to the wounded tree, she gracefully slinks down from the large oak and resolutely stalks toward the manor. Time to face the past.

.

* * *

.

"I'm not going back," Bruce mutters, burying his face beneath a pillow. Without response, Alfred limps over to the window and flings open the thick curtains, letting the sharp morning sun cut into the musty room. Bruce groans and compresses himself further into his luxurious bedding, hoping he'll disappear completely.

"Master Bruce, it's been days," Alfred announces impatiently. When Bruce doesn't stir, he sibilantly stresses, " _Days,_ mind you. Work will not wait for you."

"It will have to," Bruce mumbles back, "because I quit."

Alfred wrenches the blankets from the bed, leaving the billionaire with only a pillow and an exposed set of muscular, pale legs beneath a pair of wrinkled boxers. Bruce shivers and curls up into a ball, straining to keep his pillow tight against his face. Tossing Bruce's blankets aside, Alfred shakes his head and tuts, "My, my, my. I've never seen such a sorry sight."

Bruce grunts and rolls to his other side, unbothered by his butler's comments. In turn, Alfred rolls his eyes. "Blankets are not camouflage, sir. I can see you, and so can Gotham." He pitches the newspaper he'd brought in at Bruce's ankles. Warily, Bruce peeps out from underneath his lone cushion, ungracefully fumbles to pinch the paper between forefinger and thumb, and retracts it back up to where he can see it.

" _Bruce Wayne? More like GIANT JOKE?_ " He exclaims, pushing his pillow aside and sitting up in bed. His bedhead causes his dark locks to stick out in funny angles. He looks up at Alfred. "This isn't even clever," he notes.

Alfred snorts contemptuously, moving to pick through Bruce's wardrobe. Bruce purses his lips and tosses the print aside, swinging his legs over the bed's edge. "Who cares," he mutters, rolling his shoulders in a shrug.

"You're only proving them right," Alfred comments, sending him a sour look.

Bruce stands and stretches his arms lazily overhead. "What if they _are_ right?" he asks blithely.

Alfred turns and groans, "Oh _stop_ feeling sorry for yourself and quit actin' like a spoilt infant!" The butler quickly snatches up some clothes from the drawer and pummels the items at Bruce, who barely dodges the projectiles. "You're goin' to stop all this foolishness right now!" Alfred demands in full dad-mode voice. "Get dressed and go run _your_ company!"

Bruce casually selects a t-shirt from Alfred's weaponized clothing pile and pulls it over his head. "You wouldn't understand," he mutters, sounding for all the world like an angst-ridden teenager.

"You're bloody right I don't understand!" Alfred explodes, his face stained red, "This is _not_ the Bruce Wayne I know!"

Bruce collapses back onto the mattress and stares up at the lofty ceiling. "I don't care," he deadpans, absently rubbing at the slight stubble on his chin.

The butler gives him an exasperated look. " _How_ can you give up so quickly? After the endless blood sweat'n tears you've poured out into getting here!"

Bruce lolls his head to look back at Alfred. "I just need time," he explains quietly, wishing he could tell Alfred what's been going through his mind. The hallucinogenic effects of the mutinous sleeping pills have finally worn off, but the insomnia, and the tragic uncertainty of his character remain. How can he possibly go back?

Alfred gives him a hard look. "Well, time is not a luxury you have, sir," he says gravely, "Gotham is waiting."

After Alfred leaves, Bruce finds himself staring blankly at the ceiling again, considering his options. He tries to remember why he'd worked _so_ hard to take over the business _so_ quickly. What had been the rush? His mouth screws into a frown. At the time he had thought that with each second he was learning, he was contributing to something much bigger than himself. He'd become a great leader, and accomplish great things, blah, blah, blah. This plan _would_ have been great, had he not been building a house on shifting sand the entire time. Well now the sand has certainly shifted, rocking his foundation to the core and making him wonder what his future could possibly hold, if not being the picture-perfect business man he'd always aspired to be.

He gropes around the sheets until his fingers touch paper and draws the offending newspaper to him, holding it above his head to glare at the headline again. Outside, a tiny smirk touches Selina's lips as she reads the ham-fisted paper title hovering over Bruce's head and sips her morning coffee. Surveillance is off to a good start; a giant joke doesn't seem like much of a threat to her.

.

* * *

.

 **Still with me? You're all so awesome.**

 **I have to thank my beautiful reviewers for their supportive and insightful comments: Swift Bolt99, Jak Pickens, Itzel Lightwood, Nexus, and angellcakes 23, you guys rock. I'd also like to thank any favoriters, followers, and of course, the lovely readers.**

 **So in my head, I know everything that's happening, on the surface and behind the scenes. My intent is to deliver surgically precise bits of information to lead you all to satisfying "aha" moments as more of the story comes to light.** _ **But**_ **if it's all landing at your feet like a convoluted sack of warm potatoes, I want to know. Plot longevity is not a strong suit of mine, but with each chapter completed I can see more of my "plan" coming together.**

 **I wrote this chapter in only a couple days (maybe you can tell) so hopefully that trend will stick. Up next, Selina gets into shenanigans at the manor. Until we meet again~**

 **(Update 9/7/18: Well, I'm back in real school. I've got a lot on the back burner for this story, nothing is ready yet, but since Gotham is coming back soon I'm going to try my best to scrape something together asap. But honestly I'm really just not feeling motivated to continue right now. This story doesn't seem to be getting attention anymore and I think it's because it really _is_ the convoluted sack of warm potatoes mentioned above—though no one has confirmed nor denied this. Please send words of encouragement if you feel so inclined, I could really use them. Thanks again for being awesome.)**


End file.
